Unnatural Acts

by Kevin J. Anderson

  I worked my way down the aisle, listening for movement, worried that the gremlin might sleep inside the shop, but nothing stirred. A thick spell book, written in blood and bound in human skin, gave off a dim phosphorescent glow; it was one of the Howard Phillips Publishing special limited editions.

  On a row of shelves I saw a pile of new acquisitions, which were stacked without price tags. As I squinted into the dimness, I was surprised to discover costumes, theater props, and the traditional smiling and weeping masks that symbolized Comedy and Tragedy in Shakespearean plays.

  I did a double take. Shakespeare’s ghost had insisted that all the props perished in the fire, but apparently the arsonist had decided to make a quick buck as well as make a point . . . which didn’t sound like Senator Balfour’s minions. At least now I could recover the lost props for the theater troupe, help them get a fresh start. A bonus.

  But I could do that during the pawnshop’s normal business hours. I wouldn’t need to steal them now. Since I could prove that the props were stolen property, I could even get McGoo on my side, if Snazz proved intractable again.

  As a matter of fact, if I were going to steal anything, I’d retrieve the family jewelry that Sheyenne’s brother had pawned. The very thought made my blood boil. Travis damn well better use the money to get himself out of trouble—and then get himself out of the Unnatural Quarter for good, so he didn’t bother Sheyenne anymore....

  But I’m not a thief. Much as I disliked the gremlin, technically Snazz had done nothing wrong. He had acquired the items honestly, and I have my own code of ethics (let’s not count the breaking and entering). I merely wanted a glance at the ledger—no harm, no foul—before I melted back into the night. Snazz would never know, and I could get on with the process of getting Jerry the zombie back to his former vivacious self.

  I moved into the deeper gloom at the back of the pawnshop. On the counter, I saw the basketball-sized crystal ball in its ornate birdbath-shaped holder, sparkling with reflected light. A set of antique bookends had been knocked sideways and lay on the countertop. Snazz’s old coffee cup, proclaiming him to be World’s Best Gremlin, was also tipped over, its pencils and pens scattered everywhere, several of them on the floor. The chicken-wire barricade had been torn loose.

  Behind the counter, I found Snazz, dead—and not from natural causes.

  When you discover a body, especially a murder victim, several thoughts go through your head. First is a burst of paralyzing surprise. Because the pawnshop was so quiet, I hadn’t expected to find anyone there at all, and if I did encounter the pawnbroker, I would have made some excuse, had a conversation, worked something out. But you can’t have a conversation with a dead guy.

  Snazz lay sprawled there, tufts of yanked fur strewn around, his slitted eyes bulging, tongue lolling out between pointed teeth. His little paws were extended upward as if still trying to fight off an assailant....

  The second thing that goes through your mind is fear. You wonder if maybe the killer is still around. So I drew my .38 and cautiously looked from side to side. I was sure I would have heard someone slipping away, or an assailant stalking me. The pawnshop remained silent, even though the shadows seemed even darker now.

  The pawnbroker beside me had obviously been strangled; I could tell from the crushed fur around his throat, the cocked angle of his head. Judging by the scattered objects on the counter and around the body, there had been a struggle—not surprising, since victims tend to struggle when they’re being strangled.

  The third and perhaps most important thing that goes through your mind is the sensation that can only be characterized as “Oh shit, I’m in trouble now!” I had broken into the pawnshop. I was trespassing. Someone might have seen me slipping down the alley. I’d probably left fingerprints. It was no secret I had told Mrs. Saldana that I intended to get information out of Snazz, one way or another.

  I could have run, done my best to wipe off the fingerprints, and hoped that I left no mark. When someone eventually found the gremlin’s body, no one would think to interrogate me—at least not right away.

  I didn’t like those odds, though. Instead, I pulled out my phone. My best bet would be to stay where I was, report the crime, and come clean. I slanted things in my favor, though. I called McGoo directly.

  Shortly after I called, I realized I’d miscalculated. Blame it on panic, which makes a person do stupid things, or maybe residual effects of the bullet hole through my brain. If I’d been thinking straight, I would have worked open the combination lock in the gremlin’s credenza, found the ledger, gotten the information I needed, and then called in the crime.

  Too late now.

  Hurrying, not sure how much time I’d have before the cops arrived, I bent over the credenza lock, spun the dial back and forth, pretending to be a safecracker, but the gremlin had kept this as well oiled and polished as everything else in the pawnshop. I kept trying to get the drawer open, realizing this was a big risk to take for a pro bono case.

  On the fifth try, I still couldn’t get the lock open. I turned to Snazz’s glassy eyes. “You aren’t going to offer any help, are you?”

  Then I heard the sirens coming, and I knew I wouldn’t get the drawer open in time. I made a halfhearted final attempt, then wiped my prints off the lock and stood up, trying to make myself look as harmless and innocent as possible.

  McGoo arrived with the first batch of police. He must have been halfway home, but he had rushed back to the Quarter when he received my call, radioing for backup as he came. The cops entered Timeworn Treasures with guns drawn.

  “Hands up! Stay where you are!” one of the cops growled—a rookie, I imagined.

  McGoo walked in beside him. “Calm down. He’s the one who called it in.”

  “He’s still under arrest! This is a murder scene.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” I said.

  “That remains to be proved!”

  “Oh, don’t go overboard,” McGoo said to the rookie. “He’s already been a murder victim. I very much doubt he’s a murderer.” I wasn’t convinced that logic would hold up in court.

  “If I killed Snazz, why would I have stayed here and reported the crime?” I asked.

  “To remove suspicion,” said the rookie.

  “And did it work?” I turned to McGoo.

  “Scout’s honor, Shamble, you’re a real honorable guy. On the other hand, an honorable guy wouldn’t have broken into the pawnshop in the first place.”

  “I’ll make it up to you by solving the crime,” I promised.

  “That should about do it,” McGoo said.

  CHAPTER 23

  In one of those “saved by the bell” moments, my phone rang. The rookie cop pointed his revolver at me, as if my cell phone were a concealed weapon. I ignored him and answered the call.

  The urgency in Sheyenne’s voice was palpable. “Beaux, get to the Full Moon right away! There’s an emergency—it’s Travis! He’s in bad shape. An ambulance is on its way, and I’m going now.”

  “Travis at the Full Moon? Spooky, what happened?” But she had already hung up. I turned to McGoo. “I’ve got to go to the brothel.” That wasn’t what he’d expected me to say.

  The rookie cop kept his gun pointed at me. “You can’t just leave, mister. You’re a murder suspect! What if you skip town?”

  “Officer McGoohan will keep an eye on me. Come on, McGoo, I might need your help. I think somebody’s hurt. No time to lose.” What are BHFs for?

  McGoo decided that sounded preferable to a gremlin homicide. “I had a car cruise by there a few times today, as you requested, but I’ve been meaning to check out the Full Moon in person—strictly for professional reasons, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  He barked at the rookie cop. “Lock down the scene and call in the evidence techs. Meanwhile, I’ll keep interrogating the suspect. He’s got a lot of explaining to do.”

  By the time we got to the brothel, the ambulance had arrived with flashin
g lights and full siren, Code 3. Crowds of onlookers gathered in the streets, and the scantily clad vampire princesses struck poses; they didn’t look overly concerned, nor did the sleek-furred werewolf Cinnamon. The Full Moon’s new golem security guards stood like statues. So this wasn’t a security issue.

  Neffi stood outside on the sidewalk, her face even more withered and pinched than usual, annoyed rather than frightened by the ruckus. “Can we take care of this as quickly as possible?” she asked the emergency medical technicians. “These are my peak business hours.”

  The EMTs hauled a gurney through the large front doors and down the porch steps. A weak-looking gray-skinned man lay on the stretcher, his cheeks sunken, his eyelids fluttering. He seemed drained and shriveled. At first, I thought it was an old mummy customer who had overextended his abilities with one of the vigorous ladies. Then I realized it was Sheyenne’s brother.

  I rushed forward. “Neffi, what the hell happened here?” McGoo did his best to keep up.

  The madam clenched her sticklike fingers into a gnarled fist. “Damned fool got in over his head. We warned him. Ruth isn’t for just anybody.”

  Sheyenne’s ghost appeared over the crowd and swooped toward the stretcher as the EMTs loaded it into the back of the ambulance. “Travis! What have you done now?”

  He couldn’t respond. He looked utterly and completely spent, but thankfully still alive.

  That was when I saw the emerald-eyed, waifish succubus sitting on the porch, her back against the rail. Her shoulders were racked with sobs. “I didn’t mean to!” She began weeping. “I’m sorry! I didn’t think I was getting carried away. Why does this always happen to me?”

  “I told you,” Neffi said to her in a stern voice, “never overestimate human customers. They’re fragile.”

  Ruth moaned. She looked absolutely miserable.

  The back doors of the ambulance slammed shut. The EMTs hopped inside and fired up the lights and siren again—I think they liked to draw attention to themselves—and roared off toward the hospital. The golem security guards waved goodbye to them.

  Keeping poor Ruth back and out of sight, Neffi hustled the other girls out onto the street. “Go talk to the onlookers—there’s a whole crowd of potential customers. See if you can make new friends.”

  Sheyenne appeared before me, distraught. I told her, “Go after him, Spooky. You should be with your brother. I’ll follow as soon as I can.”

  “Thanks—I really need you right now.” Her translucent expression was an atonal symphony of anger and deep concern. “Travis better have a good explanation for what he was doing there.” She flitted off.

  McGoo watched her go, then turned to me. “Does she really need someone to explain things to her?”

  “She’ll figure it out. Too soon, I suppose.” My heart was heavy, because she would also figure out where penniless Travis had gotten the money to hire a succubus rather than using it to solve his problems.

  Neffi turned to McGoo. “Don’t let this color your opinion of my business, Officer. It’s just one girl. And that young man—he’ll be just fine, if he gets a restorative spell soon enough. I’ll even pay for . . . part of it. Maybe we don’t need to fill out the paperwork? We can just forget about this whole thing.” She stroked McGoo’s arm. “I could give you a special discount. Some of our ladies love men in uniform. I certainly do.”

  “As tempting an offer as that may be,” McGoo said, “I am on duty.”

  “You told me you were going home for the night,” I said.

  “You called me back. How much more trouble are you going to cause in one night, Shamble?”

  “That’s what friends are for.”

  Neffi had an edge to her voice as she reprimanded the succubus. “Any fines I have to pay are coming out of your cut, Ruth. It’s hard enough to find clients willing to hire you, but I kept you on as a specialty item. Now how are you going to earn your keep?”

  Ruth continued sobbing. “I’m sorry!”

  My heart went out to her. “Neffi, it’s not her fault. Travis is the one who made the mistake—I have no doubt about that. He makes a lot of mistakes.” I turned to McGoo, reminding him of the harassment the Full Moon had been suffering. “Let’s see how Travis recovers at the hospital before we make a big incident out of this. They don’t need any more trouble.”

  McGoo frowned. “If the man wants to press charges, I’ll have no choice but to follow up, but I suppose I can put this on the back burner . . . for now.” He added in a pointed tone, “You’re right—a murder investigation should have higher priority. Now, are you going to tell me what you were doing in the pawnshop with a dead gremlin?”

  “I didn’t expect him to be dead. In fact, I was hoping not to see him at all.”

  “Beside the point, Shamble.”

  “The cases don’t solve themselves. I needed to have a look at the ledger book Snazz kept in the credenza behind his counter—as a favor to Mrs. Saldana.”

  McGoo let out a disbelieving sigh. “So you made yourself a prime murder suspect for something that’s not even a paying case?”

  I answered sarcastically, “Yes, McGoo, I would feel a lot better about finding a dead body if it weren’t pro bono work.” I sighed. “I risked a lot, but it was for a good cause. Do you think I could have a look at that ledger, just a quick glance, while you’re processing it into evidence?”

  He looked at me in disbelief. “You’ve got balls, Shamble! If I hadn’t interceded, you’d be in jail right now.” He shook his head, hardened his expression. “No, you can’t have a look, not until it’s released from evidence, and not until you’re cleared of the murder rap.”

  I decided to ask again later. Now wasn’t the time.

  Neffi strolled among the crowd with her ladies. Many of the spectators shrank back after having seen the man hauled out on a gurney; others, though, seemed intrigued, like a squirrel showing inappropriate curiosity about a rattlesnake. The mummy madam made light of the incident. “That shows my girls are enthusiastic and vigorous, if nothing else! Don’t let this little disturbance scare you off. Is anybody man enough to have a try for himself? Fifteen percent discount until dawn, certain conditions apply.”

  I turned to McGoo. “I’d stay, but I promised Sheyenne I’d meet her at the hospital.”

  I had planned on a quiet night breaking and entering at the pawnshop, looking up a name in a ledger, and going home satisfied. Now I was potentially framed for a murder, and Sheyenne’s brother was in the hospital.

  I was supposed to be solving cases, but more often than not I spent my time cleaning up messes.

  CHAPTER 24

  Travis remained on life support, holding on but not improving. He looked like a human washrag made out of skin and bone that had been wrung vigorously dry, then given an extra twist for good measure. I couldn’t imagine how sweet, emerald-eyed Ruth could have done such a thing. Her despair and guilt were obviously genuine. A succubus was a succubus—what else was she supposed to do, write greeting-card sentiments? No, I laid the blame for the dumb decision on Travis.

  If he recovered, he would probably brag about his “wild night.”

  I sat vigil with Sheyenne’s ghost as she stayed with Travis, and I felt a poignant sense of déjà vu, reminded of when I had remained at her bedside in the hospital, refusing to leave as the toadstool poison killed her. The memory of that awful time was enough to make even a zombie shudder.

  Since it was clear the doctors couldn’t help him, I called Mavis Wannovich. She was happy to help, said she’d be pleased to use her witchery for the benefit of my clients and friends. I didn’t point out that Travis Carey was neither client nor friend, and I knew that in return the Wannoviches and their ghostwriter would want to interview me about the Shamble & Die Penny Dreadfuls. I decided to call this my first month’s compensation. One of those “emergency fixes.”

  When the two witch sisters arrived at the hospital, the staff balked at letting them enter. Per hospital policy, large sows wer
e not allowed in the patient rooms, even though Mavis insisted that her sister was a thoroughly hygienic pig and probably carried fewer germs than the other visitors or patients in the facility. Alma squealed, ready to engage in antisocial behavior by defecating on the clean hospital floors, which would not have helped their case.

  Fortunately, I arrived before the situation got out of hand. “She’s here for a patient’s treatment. I requested her services for the man in 554W.”

  “What sort of services?” asked the charge nurse. “She’s a witch!”

  Mavis said with a sniff, “I do have some medical experience.”

  “You’re a witch doctor?”

  “I prefer ‘Practitioner of Alternative Medicine.’ ” She held a pot filled with a smelly concoction. “And this is just what the doctor ordered.”

  “No doctor ordered that!” the charge nurse insisted. “Insurance won’t cover it.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve authorized it,” I said.

  The nurse placed herself in front of me. “And who are you?” She took a closer look and said, “You’re on the wrong floor. The morgue is on the basement level.”

  I pulled out my wallet, flashed my PI license and Detective Society membership card. “Private investigator for the patient.” I took Mavis’s arm before the nurse could respond. “Come on, I’ll show you to Travis’s room.” Walking with great confidence, I led the Wannoviches around the charge nurse and then down the corridor.

  The normal treatments hadn’t helped Travis at all, and few if any medical schools offered curricula that included treatment options for succubus exposure. Sooner or later, I was sure that would become common practice for medical centers near the Quarter.

  We dodged patients in ill-fitting geometric-print hospital gowns who were shuffling along with walkers or holding IV poles—not a horde of shambling zombies, but post-surgery patients.