Unnatural Acts

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “Yes, he did,” said Mike, the doorman golem.

  I smiled at Neffi. “But I don’t know Ruth’s job qualifications. . . other than being a succubus, I mean. And there’s not much of a market for that these days.”

  “Not anymore,” Neffi agreed. “And I’ve got nothing personal against her. I just can’t afford the insurance anymore. With a succubus on staff, my premiums hit the stratosphere. Go ahead, see what you can do—but don’t take too long.” She went back into her office and closed the door.

  Ruth had taken a seat on one of the red velvet lounges. She pressed her knees together, folded her hands primly on top of them, and gazed at me. “Some people think it’s enjoyable to be a female avatar of sexual desire, libido incarnate.” She sniffled. “But it’s not as much fun as you might think, considering the cost. Vampires suck the energy out of their victims, too.” She gestured to the two voluptuous undead princesses. “But they can restrain themselves.”

  Nightshade spread her lips and tapped a forefinger on her long white fangs. “Precision tools, that’s what these are.”

  “Maybe I should just go find a nunnery somewhere,” Ruth said.

  Cinnamon barked a laugh. “That wouldn’t solve the problem—a place filled with sexually repressed virgins? Libido is libido.”

  “You’re probably right.” Ruth sighed. “I really like flowers. I’d like to work in a florist’s shop, but everything withers when I touch it.”

  I wondered what I was doing. I felt myself weakening. If I looked at Ruth’s sad face any longer, I might end up inviting her to move into my spare room above the Chambeaux & Deyer offices, and that would not be a good idea, no matter how innocent my intentions. Not a good idea at all.

  Suddenly I felt awkward and needed to leave. “I’ll, uh, bring it up with Mr. Goodfellow the next time I speak with him. Keep your chin up. We’ll figure something out.” I hurried out the door without saying goodbye.

  The moment I got back to our second-floor offices and planted myself behind the desk to study case files with a great deal of feigned attention, Sheyenne knew exactly where I had been. Maybe she could smell some lingering incense from the brothel lobby or a recognizable perfume used by one of the ladies. More likely, she could read the guilty expression on my face.

  She drifted in front of me, beautiful, blond, and translucent—all I had ever wanted, and I wanted her more now that I could never touch her again. What was I doing?

  Sheyenne wasn’t angry. She didn’t argue with me. . . . I could have handled that. No, she looked hurt, and that was far worse. “You’re spending a lot of time at the Full Moon—more than you spend on any of our other pending cases.”

  “There’s a lot going on, Spooky. I just needed—”

  “Beaux, come on. I’m not a kid. I’ve been through a lot, being poisoned to death and all. You and I can’t pretend that we’ve got a normal relationship, or that it will ever be normal again.” I saw her shudder, which, in the ghost, manifested itself as a flicker in her image. “I know that even dead men have needs. Maybe you should go visit one of the girls at the Full Moon, get it out of your system. I’ll always be here.”

  “It’s not what you think,” I insisted, then realized that I was insisting too loudly and too quickly.

  She continued. “If not that cute little redhead succubus, then one of the zombie girls must be your type? Or a vampire?”

  “Honest, I’m not tempted,” I said. “It’s strictly business.”

  All men have found themselves faced with choices, knowing that absolutely none of the choices is the right one. It’s the lady or the tiger—except the lady has a submachine gun and the tiger has rabies. This was one of those situations.

  Fortunately, Alice the gremlin walked through the office door at that precise moment—and ended up costing us hundreds of dollars. I couldn’t have been more relieved.

  Snazz’s sister still wore her frumpy housedress, clutched the small purse in front of her, and was cool and professional. She had applied too much lipstick and wore perfume that smelled a lot like mothballs.

  With a silent sigh, Sheyenne drifted back to her desk as I went to meet the gremlin’s sister. A gulf of unfinished business hung in the air between us, but Alice didn’t seem to notice. Under her furry right arm, she had tucked a plain black ledger book.

  “You may be interested in a discovery I made, Mr. Chambeaux.” She set her purse on the corner of Sheyenne’s desk, then held out the black ledger. “While cleaning the pawnshop to rent to a new customer, I discovered loose floorboards under the front display case. I should have known to look there ahead of time. Snazz always had a hiding place for his furry porno magazines when he was younger. I found a second ledger, one that appears to record all transactions.” She opened the cover. “I know how much you wanted to have the other one. If you match the final bid, I can sell you this alternate copy.”

  She had my full attention now, but she wouldn’t let me touch the book.

  “Missy Goodfellow’s assistant already bought the original ledger,” I said.

  “My brother kept two sets of books, one for show and one with the real information. Standard shady business practice. I have every reason to believe that this is the accurate record.”

  I wasn’t surprised. In fact, after working for the Smile Syndicate, Angela Drake should have known that questionable businesses kept two sets of books.

  “I believe the bid was for a thousand dollars, Mr. Chambeaux?” Alice said, her eyes twinkling.

  I felt a heaviness in my chest.

  “That was never a serious bid, Alice. I was just provoking Angela into raising her price. I can go back to the”—I swallowed hard—“seven fifty that I offered, since I no longer have exclusive access to the information.”

  “Seven fifty was not the final bid, Mr. Chambeaux.”

  Sheyenne interrupted. “Mr. Chambeaux already made you hundreds more by bidding against Angela Drake. He inflated the price you received, and this money is just gravy. Five hundred is all we’re willing to pay. Since the auction, we’ve made great progress in solving these pending cases, and any information in the ledger is no longer as relevant as it was. In fact, in another few days we’re likely to solve the cases, and then we won’t need the ledger at all.”

  “But this book contains the correct and accurate information!” Alice insisted, sounding flustered at Sheyenne’s tough negotiation.

  “Moving on,” Sheyenne said sweetly. “Do you want the five hundred or not?”

  I definitely wanted to see the information there, but I tried not to show my excitement. Sheyenne, fortunately, was a better and tougher haggler.

  “Very well,” Alice said. “That amount will allow me to upgrade my cabin on the cruise.”

  “I’ll write you a check,” Sheyenne said.

  After the gremlin sister headed off to the Trove National Bank to cash the check, I picked up the black ledger and let out a long sigh. I said, with all the sincerity I possessed, “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Spooky.”

  She took the ledger book out of my hands. “I’ll go over this and analyze the information. I’m good at details like that.” She looked at me with her spectral blue eyes. “And you just keep thinking about how much you need me.”

  CHAPTER 38

  When Mavis Wannovich called, Sheyenne acted as the moat dragon. She covered the phone with her insubstantial hand, which I wasn’t sure would muffle the sound. “Beaux, Mavis wants to come into the offices and talk with you in person. She sounds insistent.”

  Just then, Francine burst through the door, grinning and frenetic with energy, puffing a long cigarette. “Wait until you hear what just happened!” She took a quick drag. “I got my job back! Stu said I could be his bartender again! He even brought me flowers, a box of chocolates, and a carton of my favorite cigarettes.”

  I said to Sheyenne, “Please tell Mavis I’ve got another client right now, but I’ll be in touch—honest.” Mavis was probably getting anxi
ous for her vampire ghostwriter to get started on the Shamble & Die Penny Dreadful detective novel. “I promise she can have all the time she needs, but it’ll be a few days.”

  As Francine danced with far more exhilaration than I had ever seen her show, Robin cautioned, “I hope you didn’t agree to anything in writing. The Smile Syndicate is trying to butter you up so that you’ll drop the charges.”

  Francine was not allowing any rain on her parade. “Stu did butter me up. That’s all I wanted—to be appreciated.”

  “Your customers appreciated you, Francine,” I said. “You’re the best bartender we ever had.”

  She reached out to pat my cold hand. “I know you appreciated me, dear. That show of support was the most touching thing I ever experienced—but it didn’t make me vindictive against the Goblin Tavern, just made me want my job back even more.”

  Robin was feisty, crossing her arms over her chest. “Not good enough. We can still go after them for punitive damages. The Smile Syndicate caused you emotional distress, and there’s the few days of lost wages. And tips! Discrimination against humans by humans is just as bad as people who are prejudiced against unnaturals. We can set a precedent.”

  Francine finished her cigarette with a long drag. “Thank you for everything you’ve done, Ms. Deyer. Your passion makes me short of breath!” She coughed twice and looked around for an ashtray. “But I’ve got what I want, I really do. Stu offered me a raise, covered my back wages, called the whole misunderstanding a ‘paid leave of absence.’ I’ll be back behind the bar tonight. He does want me to wear a new outfit, a black dress and a cobwebby hat, so I fit in better. He’s trying for some sort of Elvira look. Maybe the customers will believe I’m a zombie after all.”

  “But we can fight this further!” Robin said.

  Francine continued to look uncomfortable, but Robin was blinded by moral outrage, so I had to intervene. “We have a satisfied client, Robin. Our efforts got Francine her job back. She doesn’t want to change the whole world. It’s okay to take the win and do a victory dance.”

  Robin drew a deep breath, calmed herself. “I’m sorry, Francine. I’ve just spent the past two days reading that heinous Unnatural Acts Act, and it makes my blood boil. I’ll have plenty of fights coming up.” Her expression softened. “I’m very happy for you, Francine. Congratulations on getting your job back.”

  “McGoo and I will see you tonight, Francine,” I said. “I promise.”

  “The first round is on the house!”

  Robin went back to her office to keep working on multiple challenges to Senator Balfour’s Act. She had been up all night reading through the mountain of obtuse legal language, writing new notes for every offensive paragraph she found. Without too much trouble, she had tracked down unnaturals willing to serve as examples of specific individuals who would be harmed by certain provisions in the Unnatural Acts Act, so that she had legal standing in her efforts. She had already filed eleven separate suits, and she’d only just finished going through the preamble.

  Robin did secure an injunction that allowed the Pattersons to stay in their suburban house, pending the outcome of her challenge to the charges filed against the couple for “living together in a conjugal manner.” By extension, Robin was also demanding the right of her client Harvey Jekyll to move into the neighborhood of his choosing. Fortunately for Jekyll—in a legal sense at least—he was not involved in any sort of romantic relationship, natural or unnatural.

  Sheyenne, meanwhile, reviewed the new black ledger book from Timeworn Treasures. Using a wooden ruler, she went down the columns of entries, sales figures, and names. McGoo hadn’t found any relevant listing in the “public” copy of the accounts, but I felt the right information might be in this book.

  When Sheyenne looked up, she wore a strange expression on her translucent face. “You’ll want to see this, Beaux. Just found the notation for the Shakespeare theatrical props.”

  “Maybe we can wrap up that case,” I said. “Who’s the thief?”

  “We can’t guarantee he’s a ‘thief,’ ” Sheyenne said, “but he is the person who pawned all the props.” She touched the line. I leaned over to see the printed entry:

  Wm. Shakespeare (Ghost)

  “He pawned his own props?” I said. “Well, that raises a few suspicions.”

  “Look at the date. Not only did he pawn the masks, wardrobe, and props—he did it the day after the fire.”

  Since other cases had been popping lately, I hadn’t been giving Shakespeare daily progress reports, but he wasn’t exactly pestering me for results, either. In fact, he’d dodged my last attempts to contact him. I had assumed the troupe was busy preparing for the Tempest production.

  The ghostly actors rehearsed their lines daily, and Shakespeare had advertised widely for an unnatural guest actor to play the part of Caliban. From what I’d heard, he had plenty of auditions—too many—but he finally settled on an appropriately large thespian ogre. Thanks to publicity generated by the fire that burned down their stage, the troupe would have a large crowd for their comeback performance, including many supportive ghosts.

  Now, however, I knew Shakespeare had been far from honest with me, and that pissed me off. Being a private investigator was enough of a challenge under normal circumstances; I didn’t need my own clients to make a job more difficult. It happened all too often.

  Fuming, I grabbed my fedora and jacket. “I’m going to have a few words with Mr. Shakespeare out at the Greenlawn Cemetery.” Then I turned back to Sheyenne. “Good catch, Spooky. Thanks for finding that.”

  She had flipped to a different page in the ledger book, and she had a glow of excitement about her. “Oh, you don’t want to leave just yet—this may be even more important.”

  She had discovered the entry for Jerry the zombie’s heart and soul, with a special asterisk by it. Then other lines, similarly starred, on previous pages. “Heart-and-soul combo packs were a hot item at Timeworn Treasures, just as Snazz said. More than twenty bundles sold.” She paused. “And all of them purchased by the same person.”

  Sheyenne closed the black ledger book with finality, making her announcement as if she were a cinematic detective announcing the solution to a case. “It was Angela Drake—using Smile Syndicate funds.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Shakespeare’s ghost could wait—I knew where to find him and his acting troupe, and I could pose my questions later. Instead, I was off to Smile HQ to have a few words with Missy Goodfellow’s assistant.

  The headquarters building was clean, modern, and professional-looking, completely aboveboard and respectable; it looked like any other office complex. No doubt, Missy’s accountants filed the proper (or at least proper-looking) tax forms, permits, and annual reports.

  I might have thought Angela was buying up hearts and souls for her own private collection—a strange hobby, but who am I to judge? However, Snazz had deliberately indicated that they were purchased with Smile Syndicate funds. I intended to get some answers.

  Admittedly, I didn’t present the most professional appearance when I passed through the sparkling glass and metal doors. I’d had a rough few days: My jacket was rumpled, and I was due for another freshening-up at the embalming parlor. Before Missy’s assistant could throw me out, I intended to hit her with my discovery—and then we’d have an entirely different type of conversation.

  But Angela Drake wasn’t at the front reception desk.

  Instead, I saw a harried-looking older woman with short curly hair, large out-of-style glasses, and a timid attitude toward her computer that made me think she still considered it a “newfangled thing.” She flinched as I came forward. I don’t know if she was overwhelmed by the job or reacting to my undead status.

  The phone rang and she seized it, hunted and pecked around the switchboard buttons until she found a blinking light to poke, and said, “Smile Syndicate, how may I make your day a sunny one?” At least she had memorized the right greeting. “No, I’m afraid our lightbulb suppl
y is in perfect order, but I will leave a message for Ms. Goodfellow in case we desire to upgrade.”

  After she hung up, the receptionist turned to me and forced a smile, but she seemed out of practice. “How may I help you . . . sir?”

  “Where’s Angela Drake? I’d like to speak with her.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Ms. Drake is . . . no longer with us.”

  Since Alphonse Wheeler had warned us about the nefarious activities of the Smile Syndicate, I suddenly imagined that Angela had been murdered, her body hidden, the evidence covered up so she couldn’t reveal the information she knew. “What happened to her? Is she dead?”

  The older woman flushed. “No, sir! She simply left the company. I’m just a temp, filling in for the interim.”

  The phone rang again, and she grabbed it as if it were the cavalry coming to her rescue. “Smile Syndicate, how may I make your day a sunny one?”

  I stood there, unmoving—looming, you might say. It made the receptionist nervous, but that wasn’t a bad thing. I waited as she made clumsy chitchat with the unsolicited caller until finally the person on the other end hung up. She turned back to me. I hadn’t moved, but now I leaned closer. She tried admirably not to wince or draw back, clearly afraid that her nostrils might be assaulted by a wave of stench from the grave, but I had taken care of my basic hygiene duties. If anything, I smelled like fresh-as-spring soap.

  “I need to talk with Angela,” I repeated. “Where can I find her?”

  “I . . . I wouldn’t know, sir. And I’m not allowed to give out former employee information.”

  “Then I’d like to see Missy Goodfellow.”

  The temp stammered, and a voice interrupted me from a side doorway I hadn’t even heard open. “There’s nothing we can help you with, Mr. Chambeaux.” If anything, Missy’s hair was even more shockingly yellow than the first time I’d seen her. Her pantsuit was so dazzlingly white it reminded me of a toothpaste ad.