Unnatural Acts

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “I need to ask Angela a few questions. It’s for an interesting case.”

  “All of your cases are interesting to you, I’m sure, but Angela is unavailable. She’s been transferred to Tasmania and is quite out of touch. She has gone to work in a wilderness sanctuary for the devils.”

  “Convenient,” I said.

  “It was her life’s dream.” Missy’s smile was so brittle that it would have broken into a thousand pieces if she’d sneezed.

  “Not a very traditional dream,” I said.

  “Angela was not a traditional woman. And I’m afraid I cannot help you, either.”

  “I haven’t even asked my questions yet.”

  “I wasn’t going to encourage you, due to my complete lack of interest.”

  “We could talk about it over lunch,” I said. Looking at her pristine, spotless white pantsuit, I suggested, “I know a place that serves all-you-can-eat barbecue ribs.”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Chambeaux. I don’t eat red meat. And I don’t dine with corpses.”

  Time to make her more uncomfortable. “It’s about purchases made at the Timeworn Treasures pawnshop. The sales records indicate that your assistant used Smile Syndicate money to buy numerous heart-and-soul bundle packs, including one that belongs to a zombie named Jerry, who is my client.”

  Now Missy looked disturbed. “I’m quite certain you have no proof of that.”

  Not exactly the outright denial I had expected from her. “I’m quite certain I do. Angela acquired one set of the pawnshop books during the liquidation auction, but I’ve obtained the second set—the accurate one.”

  A dark cloud crossed Missy’s expression. The phone rang again, and the receptionist was so intent on listening to our discussion that she didn’t think to answer it for three rings. Missy glared at her, and she scrabbled for the phone.

  “I should have known that gremlin would keep two sets of books. It’s standard business practice, after all.”

  “Not in my business,” I said.

  Missy gave me a withering look. No sunshine there. “Any serious business, Mr. Chambeaux. But as I said previously and repeatedly, I’m afraid I cannot help you. I don’t have the hearts and souls you’re after.”

  I put a light tone into my voice. “Then I’ll just have to keep digging.”

  “Be careful it doesn’t turn out to be your own grave.”

  “Been there, done that,” I said.

  “I have nothing to hide, Mr. Chambeaux,” Missy insisted. “Now I have to get back to work.” She turned back to the door that led to the inner sanctum of offices. At the last moment, she remembered to add, “I hope your day is a sunny one.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Since I hadn’t gotten anywhere with the Smile Syndicate, I headed back to the Unnatural Quarter to track down the ghost who called himself Shakespeare. On the way, I received a call from the real estate offices at the Greenlawn Cemetery. “While you’re out and around, Mr. Chambeaux, could you please stop by the crypt? I’d like to show you something.”

  I envisioned a binder filled with snapshots of rental properties, attractive alternative offices for Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations. Edgar Allan the troll didn’t seem to understand that we liked our somewhat seedy digs in the somewhat seedy part of town. Location, location, location.

  “We’re not in the market for acquiring property right now, Mr. Allan.”

  “I’m not always about work, you know,” said the troll in his thin voice. “You asked me to contact you if I had any further information about the arson here in the cemetery.”

  Well, better late than never! “You said you didn’t see anything.”

  “I didn’t, but Burt did. He often roams the grounds late at night.”

  “I was already on my way over,” I said. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Before I confronted Shakespeare, I wanted to gather as much information as possible.

  Inside the vacant stone crypt, the troll and his burly assistant were waiting for me. Burt had a stack of For Rent and For Sale signs, along with the logo of the real estate agency. “Cheerful service—alive or dead!”

  “Ah, there you are! Perfect timing.” The real estate agent rubbed his hands together as he stood up from his desk. “Burt was just about to go out and mark a few properties. Would you like to join him? You could chat on the way . . . and have a look at the options while you’re at it. It wouldn’t hurt to see what’s available. No obligation.”

  “Maybe some other time—I have another appointment here in the cemetery,” I said. “What exactly did you see on the night of the fire, Burt?”

  With a voice as thick as hardening epoxy, Burt the evictions specialist said, “I like to walk the cemetery grounds at night. Clears my head.”

  I didn’t know how much Burt had in his head that needed clearing. “You mean, like a security guard? Does Greenlawn pay you for that?” Maybe I could get a job application for Bill the golem.

  “Neighborhood watch,” Burt said as we stepped outside the office crypt. “I like fire, and I wasn’t far from the theater stage when I noticed the first flames. I saw who lit it, but he vanished before I could catch him.”

  “Burt doesn’t usually let people get away,” said Edgar Allan. “Special circumstances.”

  “Can you tell me what he looked like?”

  “He was a ghost,” Burt said, then proceeded to describe William Shakespeare in perfect detail.

  On the other side of the Greenlawn Cemetery—in a large expansion area marked as the site of future graves, complete with a sign saying DON’T WAIT! GET YOURS NOW!—I saw the mostly rebuilt theater stage, with construction teams, a couple of golems and zombies with work belts and hammers, hauling two-by-fours or sheets of plywood while ghostly actors directed the operations. A large new sound system boasting tall speakers added a more modern touch to the mockup of the Globe Theatre.

  Burt pointed. “There’s the guy right now. Don’t know why he’s rebuilding the whole stage when he burned it down in the first place.”

  I was sad but not surprised, since all the clues had been pointing to that answer, but I still didn’t understand why. “Thanks, Burt. I needed to have a talk with him anyway.”

  Edgar Allan scuttled out from the crypt door and gave me something. “Could you hand him my card, if you find a way to slip it into the conversation?”

  Shakespeare didn’t see me coming. When two of the spectral actors called him over, and he saw the look on my face, he knew, but by that time he couldn’t avoid me without fleeing in panic. He probably guessed what I was going to say before I spoke a word. The ghost paled, turned more translucent, but at least he didn’t vanish out of existence, though he plainly wanted to.

  For the time being, I kept my voice down so the other actors didn’t hear. “I know you’re responsible for the arson, Mr. Shakespeare. A witness saw you light the fire, and I have pawnshop records showing that you sold the theatrical props that you claimed were lost in the blaze.”

  “Oh.” He sounded embarrassed. “Are you sure we can’t pin this on some of Senator Balfour’s crazies? Or even leftovers from the Straight Edge movement?”

  “No, Mr. Shakespeare. It was you.”

  He let out a long sigh. “You cannot blame me for trying. Given the uproar about the Unnatural Acts Act, I was hoping to ride on that publicity, smear a little more mud on some bad people who deserve it.”

  “I agree they deserve it, but they’ve done enough genuinely despicable things—we don’t need to make up additional ones. You hired me to solve the crime of arson, and I did.” I couldn’t keep the annoyance out of my tone. “I expect our bill to be paid in full.”

  “Are you going to turn me in to the police?” he asked. “That would ruin us—and our big comeback performance is in two nights. Please let me explain first.”

  “I’m listening, but your words may fall on dead ears.”

  “I did it to attract attention to our plight, to generate larger audiences. The real crime, Mr
. Chambeaux, is that unnaturals no longer appreciate the works of Shakespeare. Since the fire, though, we’ve received so much sympathy. Patrons have opened their purses, and donations flowed in more than ever before. And with the insurance money—”

  I cut him off right there. “There’s not going to be any insurance money. If you burned the stage down yourself, that would be insurance fraud. You’ll withdraw your claim immediately.”

  “Oh, you’re absolutely right—I’m forgetting about modern law. But there’s been no fraud committed, yet. I, uh, tarried overlong in filing the insurance claims. Those forms are so complicated, and I’ve been too busy and distracted.” He waved his hands to indicate the stage set. “This effort requires the fullness of my attention, not simply the stage, the wardrobe, and that complicated new sound system, but also the casting, the rehearsals, the temperamental actors. And the show is day after tomorrow! The Tempest is a most intricate play, and it was an immense challenge to write—I had to develop my literary skills to the fullest before I wrote it.”

  “I thought The Tempest was Shakespeare’s very first play,” I said.

  The ghost seemed even more embarrassed. “We are performing a revised version—the author’s preferred text. Howard Phillips Publishing is going to issue a new edition of the script, complete with critical commentary from the online reviews.” He paused, still worried whether I would have him arrested. “And since my theatrical company owned the original stage, I’m allowed to burn it, aren’t I? Legally? I admit my words were . . . somewhat misleading, but is that an actual crime? Must you turn me in to the authorities?”

  “The donors you mentioned—if you actively solicited their donations, then that’s fraud, which is a felony.”

  “No! Not at all, they just came forward. I didn’t seek them out.”

  “You wasted my time, Mr. Shakespeare. I could have been working on other cases, solving real crimes for real clients.”

  “It was for a good cause, truly. Please don’t ruin it now. The Tempest could turn everything around for us. Is there not some kind of detective-client privilege? Our big performance is coming up, and I’ve myriad things to do. All the world’s a stage, but I can’t seem to finish even this little piece of it.”

  I was disinclined to be sympathetic, but he seemed sincere. Besides, Sheyenne did love the play. “I might reconsider, if I got two free tickets.”

  “Absolutely! Front row seats on opening night. You are my special guests—it’ll be a show you’ll never forget.”

  I wasn’t sure about that, but considering how much Sheyenne’s feelings had been hurt—not just by Travis but by me as well—I wanted to make it up to her. I’d take her out on a nice date. Not good enough to heal all wounds, but it was a start.

  CHAPTER 41

  The next day, Tiffany and Bill stopped by the office, bubbling with excitement. “Can only stay a minute!” said the vampire. “Bill wanted to share the good news.”

  The golem’s clay face was stretched into an absurdly large grin. “Got a job!”

  “Congratulations, Bill,” I said. “Doing what?”

  “As a security guard. I wasn’t so sure about the job at first, considering my previous work making stupid souvenirs in an underground sweatshop. But I think I’ll be good at it.”

  Tiffany smiled, showing her fangs. “Bill, you’re good at whatever you do.”

  The golem seemed embarrassed and explained to us, as if we were concerned about his priorities, “And I promise I’ll still have time to keep Tiffany’s house in shape.”

  “Sounds like just the right job for you, Bill,” I reassured him. “A security guard spends most of his time standing around like a statue, anyway.”

  “I’m good at that,” Bill said.

  Robin sounded concerned. “Just be careful. Security guard in the Unnatural Quarter is a high-risk profession.”

  “He lives for danger,” Tiffany said, and I could detect no humor in her comment. “We’re off to get him his uniform. He’ll look impressive in dark blue. Also, remember not to make plans for this Saturday night—all of you. That’s when I’m doing my comedy act at the Laughing Skull. Bring your friends. You promised you’d come, and you promised you’d laugh.”

  “We didn’t promise to laugh,” I objected.

  “But you will.” Tiffany’s comment sounded like a threat. “You will.”

  Mountains of papers were stacked on the floor of Robin’s office, legal volumes spread out on the desk, and a brand-new box of yellow legal pads from the office-supply store was already half-empty. I stood in her doorway, admiring—and intimidated by—the sheer volume of work she had tackled.

  The direct line rang in her office, and she worked her way around the desk to answer it. I watched her face fall. “Calm down, Mrs. Patterson! Just tell me about it. Slower. Wait a second, I’m going to have my partner get on the line.”

  She motioned for me to pick up the other extension, and she continued, trying to sound calm, but her eyes were wide. “At the moment, you’re on solid legal ground, Mr. and Mrs. Patterson. I filed vigorous appeals, and there’s been a stay. You’re allowed to remain in the house during the proceedings. No one can take you out of there.”

  “But these people aren’t reading legal documents, Ms. Deyer!” said Walter Patterson on the other line.

  His wife continued sobbing. “Balfour’s people are barbarians! They vandalized our house, spray-painted the most horrible slurs on the garage door. They smashed our windows.”

  Mr. Patterson picked up the story. “They threw bunches of garlic and wolfsbane through the picture window in our living room! How can we live in the house now? We’ll need to replace the carpeting, fumigate every room. I’ll have to rent a new coffin. My favorite one is ruined.”

  “And they scattered garlic all around the house, as well as a circle of salt—as if that’s going to prevent us from leaving!”

  “We’re not leaving,” Mr. Patterson said, defiant.

  I could see that Robin was a thunderstorm ready to break. “I will use every possible weapon to fight for your rights, I promise. It’s time to blow this whole matter wide open. No more sitting quietly. We’re not the ones who took this to the next level.”

  The Pattersons still sounded shaky as they thanked her and hung up. Robin launched herself out of the office with such fury on her face that she made even Sheyenne flinch. “That’s the last straw! I’ve been drafting a choice little letter for all the bloggers, papers, and TV stations. This is the excuse I’ve been waiting for. I’m going to call a spade a spade. Balfour’s a bigot, and he’s inciting violence—we have evidence of that. He can no longer hide behind his radical stupidity.”

  Even though I’m not usually the voice of reason, I cautioned, “Don’t go off half-cocked, Robin. Whenever you write an angry letter, let it sit for a day, so you can cool off, get some objectivity, then reread the letter.”

  “Justice can’t wait around for a day,” Robin said. “I’m a lawyer, I know what I’m doing.”

  I couldn’t talk her out of it, and I did want Senator Rupert Balfour eviscerated in public, although I suspected his rotten organs were not fit for even a mad scientist’s experiments.

  I asked McGoo to pull strings to arrange police protection around the Pattersons’ house, even though it wasn’t his jurisdiction. I was worried that some nutcase extremist with silver bullets or wooden stakes would take matters into his own hands.

  Robin spent hours composing her angry press release that exposed Senator Balfour’s despicable activities, then distributed her posting as widely as possible, not only to various media outlets but to popular social-networking sites and bulletin-board discussion groups frequented by unnaturals.

  She seemed immensely pleased with what she had sent out—I could tell from her edgy smile and the contained energy with which she moved about the office. Although she wouldn’t let me read the text ahead of time, I found it on our website. I didn’t disagree with a single word she wrote, but I
think my eyeballs blistered after reading the flaming invective.

  CHAPTER 42

  Knowing that Angela Drake had bought the heart-and-soul combo packs didn’t help me retrieve them, since she had vanished. Missy Goodfellow categorically denied possessing the items, and she certainly wouldn’t give me access to her financial records so I could double-check.

  But a dead end wasn’t going to stop a zombie private detective.

  That evening I retraced my investigations, which brought me back to the vicinity of the Unnatural Acts adult novelty shop. A frown creased my face. The store was shut down, and yellow tape crisscrossed the door. Senator Balfour’s obnoxious flyers covered the outer wall like leprous growths. I noted that they had now registered their You Are Damned! slogan as a trademark. And they still didn’t know that unnatural had two Ns.

  An official notice had been tacked to the center of the novelty shop’s door: CLOSED, PENDING PROSECUTION UNDER THE UNNATURAL ACTS ACT.

  When the legendary creatures returned in the Big Uneasy, there had been quite a panic—which was understandable—but as I observed this spread of intolerance toward monsters who just wanted to live and let live (for the most part), I wondered whether the world really was coming to an end....

  I entered the pawnshop alley to see that the Timeworn Treasures sign had been taken down, the windows painted over, and a large Commercial Property For Rent sign placed in each one, complete with the smiling face of Edgar Allan. Cheerful service—alive or dead!

  Alice had wasted no time washing her hands of her brother’s shop, sweeping everything under the rug, and heading off on her Mediterranean cruise. I imagined her lounging in a deck chair in the warm salty air, tanning her fur as she cruised around the Greek isles . . . or maybe hiding from the sunlight and spending all hours hunched over a slot machine on the casino deck.

  The cruise sounded like something I’d like to do with Sheyenne someday, a chance to spend more time alone with her. I hated for her to think I was no longer interested just because she was a ghost. You have to make some concessions in order for a relationship to work.