Chapter Three
After shattering a monstrous serial-killer demon, I looked forward to resting in peace back at the office. Forget about the horrific Obadeus; the worst part of the ordeal had been all that running! My street shoes weren’t designed for jogging and my stitched-up sports jacket wasn’t made to be an exercise shirt. My stiff, heavily embalmed body was going to be sore. And McGoo wasn’t a model of physical fitness either.
Sheyenne reached the offices ahead of me. Ghosts move faster since they can go directly through walls, take diagonal shortcuts through city blocks, and even walk right through inconveniently placed people.
She smiled up at me from the reception desk, sparkling and translucent as usual. “I’m already typing up the incident.”
“Better you than me, Spooky.” I gave her an aspirational kiss on the cheek. I hate typing; rigor mortis and nimble fingers do not go hand-in-hand.
“The Quarter was on edge because of Obadeus, and now he’s gone, thanks to you.” She batted her eyelashes at me. “At the next Chamber of Commerce meeting, they’ll probably give you a key to the city.”
“The city isn’t locked,” I said. “But if the publicity helps us get new clients, I won’t complain.” I hung my fedora on the hat rack and shrugged out of my rumpled sport jacket. I was going to sit back and relax at my desk, shuffle through old files, and mull over incomplete cases, hoping they might solve themselves, although they usually don’t.
Robin emerged from the conference room holding her magical legal pad. “I’m glad you got that monster off the streets, Dan. You and Officer McGoohan have made the Quarter safe for all citizens, living or dead.” She smiled, looking justified and proud. I like to make Robin proud. She’s a good kid.
Even though our caseload ebbs and flows like a toilet that occasionally backs up and then drains, I love being a private investigator. It’s the core of what I do, the beating heart in a man whose heart doesn’t beat anymore. Despite being a zombie, I’m never going to turn into one of those homeless decaying wrecks who moans and complains about brains all day long.
Robin gestured to the conference room door. “Can you step in for a minute? I’m meeting with a client, and we could use your advice.”
Robin is young and beautiful in an I-don’t-even-realize-I’m-pretty sort of way, with coffee-colored skin, big brown eyes, and a contemplative expression that lets you see the wheels turning in her mind. She wants to achieve justice for the downtrodden unnaturals after the Big Uneasy.
“New intake? What’s the case?” I braced myself.
“New client, old friend,” she said.
Inside the room, a young man with round owlish glasses and a bleached goatee sat in a chair, looking uncomfortable. I had seen Fletcher Knowles plenty of times when he was alive and bartending at the Basilisk Nightclub. I almost didn’t recognize him now as a ghost.
“I’m surprised to see you here, Fletcher,” I said. I felt a sudden slimy chill. “Are tentacle beasts still harassing the nightclub?”
“No, the sewers have been quiet recently. This is about something else.” He sighed quietly. “I’m surprised to be here myself. I thought the afterlife was supposed to be peaceful, but even as a ghost I’m still having problems. Being an unnatural leaves me with certain legal disadvantages.”
Fletcher Knowles was one of the original co-founders and partners in the wildly successful Talbot & Knowles blood bars, which were springing up on every corner in the Unnatural Quarter. Originally, Fletcher had sold black-market blood, infringing on Talbot’s legitimate business, but they had combined forces into a juggernaut chain of high-end blood drinks. Still, Fletcher’s real love was his nightclub—Basilisk: A Place Without Mirrors. He’d been a relatively inactive partner in the blood bars, but now that he was dead, Fletcher had more time on his hands.
“Sorry to hear you’re having trouble,” I said. “Robin can help.”
Fletcher was a good enough sort when he’d been alive, but he and I had history, both good and bad. Sheyenne had worked in his nightclub as a singer to put herself through medical school. I’d met her there when I was a human P.I., and she stole my heart (not literally—these days you have to be careful with your metaphors). Basilisk was also the place where she’d been poisoned and behind which I, myself, had been shot in an alley while looking into—among other things—Fletcher’s black-market blood business.
Still, you have to look on the bright side. I had met my true love at his nightclub, after all, and that made up for a lot of bad things.
Oh, and not long ago, Fletcher was murdered by a writhing mass of slimy tentacles that emerged from the sewers behind the club, so I guess karma evens out.
Now he was a client.
Robin sat down, resting her yellow legal pad on the table. The No.2 pencil lifted itself and magically started taking notes. The legal pad and pencil had been a gift from the actual manifestation of Santa Claus, one of our clients, who had hired us to find his stolen naughty-and-nice list.
“Fletcher’s been forced out by the new landlord of the Basilisk. The nightclub deed he signed was written by an old-school lawyer who used outdated contract law. Fletcher lost ownership of the club upon his death. Even though he’s still mentally active and certainly capable, he’s no longer part of management. The new owners don’t want him involved, thinking it would add confusion.”
“They’re probably right,” Fletcher said. “They seem very confused.”
“Isn’t there some legal wrangling you can do?” I asked. Robin was a veritable rodeo star when it came to legal wrangling.
“I’m afraid his involvement with Basilisk is off the table, unless they decide to hire him back as a bartender,” Robin said. “However, as you know, Mr. Knowles is also the co-founder of a very successful chain of blood bars. He was a Board member emeritus, and now he’d like to be a more active partner.”
“I want to keep myself busy,” Fletcher said.
Always the perfect receptionist, Sheyenne flitted in carrying a cup of green tea for Robin and a cup of old coffee for me. She hadn’t even bothered to heat it, because she knew I wouldn’t drink any; holding the coffee cup was just an affectation that helped me to feel normal.
Seeing Robin’s determined expression, I asked, “So what’s the problem?”
“They’re cutting me out of the blood bars, too,” Fletcher said. “Harry Talbot, that bastard. He was my best friend. We were partners. We used to go fishing together as boys. But now …”
“Fletcher wasn’t closely involved in the joint company,” Robin explained. “In the interim, the Board of Directors managed to install new members in secret, a hostile takeover. They had enough votes to remove Fletcher, and he’s no longer allowed to participate in running the Talbot & Knowles blood bars.”
“It’s only a matter of time before they take my name off the signs,” Fletcher groaned, sounding bitter. “They’ll just be the Talbot And blood bars.”
“This could be a long, ugly, and convoluted fight,” I pointed out.
“This is unjust, and we’ll fight it to the end!” Robin vowed, as she usually does.
“I’ve decided to pursue endless legal action as a hobby in my retirement,” Fletcher explained. “It’ll be more satisfying than buying an RV and driving around the country. It was my company, my dream. Look at how the blood bars have blossomed since the Big Uneasy! I want to sit in on the meetings, take part in the decisions, make my opinion heard.” His spectral face looked forlornly at the table. “I just want to do something.”
“If you really want to sit in on the meetings, there’s a way,” Sheyenne said. She had that quirky mischievous smile. “You’re not used to this yet, Fletcher, but I’ve been a ghost longer than you. There are certain advantages to being incorporeal. You can just slip in, poke your head through the wall, and eavesdrop on the meetings. How are they going to stop you?”
Fletcher shook his head. “It’s against the rules. They passed a corporate resolution that forbids my presence or participation, specifically by name. Harry’s got a vendetta against me. Or somebody on the Board does.”
Robin nodded solemnly as the magic pencil continued to scribble furious notes on the yellow legal pad. “I’m afraid corporate minutes are binding against ghosts.”
“Harry and I had become best friends,” Fletcher moaned. “We brainstormed the new company, painted the sign for the first store in his garage, rode our bicycles to the blood banks to get our first samples.”
“Did he come to your funeral?” I asked.
Fletcher paused to consider. “I don’t think so. I was only partly present.”
“That might have been your first clue that something was wrong,” Sheyenne said.
“Please help me,” he said. “This is all I have left.”
I nodded. “Robin will file every form that’s ever been invented.”
“At least the appropriate ones,” Robin corrected.
I stood. “And I’ll have a look around to see what I can find out.”