Next morning, when I got into the office, I discovered that I was suddenly a very famous zombie P.I., whether I wanted to be or not.
It had been a rough night (for the undead, what else is new?). I looked more run-down than usual, or maybe “run over” is a better way to put it. While McGoo and I had combed the crime scene for evidence, an ambulance had taken the unconscious Rusty to the Brothers and Sisters of Mercy Hospital, the nearest medical center that could handle unnaturals. He had been stunned by an unseen assailant using a Taser and darts filled with horse tranquilizer mixed with wolfsbane. With his werewolf healing powers, Rusty would recover from the scalping—probably faster than his frantic nephew managed to calm down—although it might be a while before he regrew a proper head of hair.
As I shambled through the office door, Sheyenne was waiting for me with a big smile on her face and a sparkle in her blue eyes. Seeing her is always a good way to start a morning. I wanted to kiss her so much that I almost forgot she was insubstantial. Romance among the undead poses more than the usual share of problems.
For all her beauty and voluptuous curves, my girlfriend is a ghost, and my days of touching her whenever I wanted to were long gone. Though we had tried a few unorthodox workarounds, mostly I content myself with remembering the brief time we had together. Now her smile glowed with enough warmth to melt even the coldest ghostbuster. I knew that something was up.
“Special delivery box arrived at first light, Beaux”—that was her pet name for me—“direct from Howard Phillips Publishing. You already know what it is!” She opened the box and withdrew a copy of a book with a garish red cover. She can move objects when she puts her mind to it, but not living—or formerly living—things.
The title said, in blood-dripping letters (of course):
Death Warmed Over
A Shamble & Die Mystery
I took the book from her with very little enthusiasm. “Shamble? Great, now I’ll never get rid of that nickname.”
“It’s not so bad,” Sheyenne said. “Time to move on.”
I glanced up at her. “A ghost is telling me it’s time to move on?”
This was the first book in the line of Penny Dreadfuls (“Now only $14.99!”). The cover art showed a sunken-eyed zombie pointing a .38 toward some unseen criminal. He wore a trench coat and a low-slung fedora that did not entirely cover the bullet hole in his forehead. Now, I had been shot in the head and I do wear a fedora (although I wear a sport jacket, not a trench coat), but I thought I was much better-looking than this guy.
“That doesn’t look at all like me.” I opened the book to a random chapter and found a lurid sex scene … something I definitely did not remember from my real adventures. “I suppose these are going to be distributed all over the Quarter?”
“All over the country, if you can believe what Mavis Wannovich says.” Sheyenne seemed delighted. “We couldn’t buy advertising like this, Beaux. A private investigator who’s so dedicated that even death can’t keep him from his cases, partnered with a bleeding-heart human lawyer who seeks justice for all unnaturals.” She picked up another copy from the box and flipped through it. “And let’s not forget the detective’s gorgeous girlfriend, who came back as a ghost because her love for him was so strong.”
“I thought you came back to make sure I solved your murder.”
“Poetic license,” she said. “Don’t spoil the story.”
Robin emerged from her office, her nose in a copy of the novel. She looked pretty and studious. Robin Deyer—the “Die” part of the novel’s fictitious “Shamble & Die”—was a young African American woman who crusaded for the rights of monsters, tackling cases that normal lawyers wouldn’t consider.
“Thrilling adventures, sure, but I see it as a good platform, too. Maybe this book will call attention to the plight of unnaturals,” she said. “Did you know that zombies and vampires aren’t even allowed to vote? Werewolves—at least the Monthly ones—easily pass for human, unless voting happens to occur during a full moon. There was a recent case when a full-furred werewolf was turned away from the polling center based strictly on his appearance.” She tapped the cover of the novel, considering. “Great works of literature can effect social change.”
“I doubt this is great literature, Robin,” I said.
Sheyenne was put off by my reaction. “Don’t be such a curmudgeon, Beaux! Other people enjoy their fifteen minutes of fame. Look at all of those reality TV shows—Survivor: Zombie Apocalypse and Transylvania Extreme Makeover.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. I’m a detective, not a celebrity.” Fame and publicity could ruin my career as a private investigator. It’s hard to shadow a suspect discreetly if your face is plastered all over the news.
I could see it all now. I wouldn’t be able to make a move without the paparazzi shadowing me; I’d be stalked by crazy fans, get inundated with hate mail or marriage proposals. Somebody might interview me about my life story and my death story, then there’d be a scandal and an exposé—Behind the Embalming Fluid. I could become a paid commentator on news networks, offering opinions on particularly heinous cases. Fame put stars in some people’s eyes, but I preferred just to solve cases and help one client at a time.
Still, I couldn’t deny the excitement on Sheyenne’s face as she ran through the possibilities, so I sighed and made the best of it. “All right, Spooky. With any luck, nobody will read the book, and the series will die quietly, end up on the remainder pile. Is there really an audience for this sort of book?”
Sheyenne chuckled. “You don’t come out of your crypt very often, do you?”
“There’s definitely an audience,” Robin added. “Even I know about the big Worldwide Horror Convention coming to the Quarter. It’s going to be at the Bates Hotel—they’re expecting hundreds of fans, celebrity guests, media.”
I had forgotten about that. “All right, I admit that I have no social life.”
“We’re working on that,” Sheyenne said with a smile. Using her poltergeist concentration, she lifted the books out of the box and stacked them on her desk. “Fifty copies.”
“What am I supposed to do with so many books?” Sheyenne probably had a scheme to give away copies as thank-you gifts to satisfied clients.
Robin picked up a pen from the desk. “These are the special limited edition. You and I both need to sign them, and they’ll be sold at a charity auction to raise money for Mrs. Saldana’s zombie rehab clinic.”
“People are going to pay money for our autographs?” I asked.
“Good money, we hope.” Robin scribbled on a sheet of scratch paper, then signed inside the first book with a flourish. “Now that I’m a board member of the Monster Legal Defense Workers, I need to show them my support in every possible way.”
I grabbed a pen from a cup on Sheyenne’s desk and began autographing the books as Robin finished them. Sheyenne opened the cover and held the title page out for me as I scrawled. Zombie fingers have little dexterity, but even my pre-death signature had been illegible. I thought of rock stars and famous actors swarmed by fans as they scribbled their autographs before being whisked off by chauffeurs to the next destination. People like that never had a minute’s peace, and no normal life. I preferred relaxing and having a beer or two with McGoo at the Goblin Tavern.
As Sheyenne repacked the signed books in the box, I said, “I’m due for my refresher rejuvenation spell tomorrow. I’ll deliver these to Mavis and Alma.” The two witch sisters, former clients of ours, now worked as acquisitions editors for Howard Phillips Publishing. Sheyenne had negotiated terms with the two: In exchange for my services as consultant on their Shamble & Die series, I would receive regular magical touch-ups to keep my body in adequate shape—much better than most zombies. (“Pristine” was out of the question, so “adequate” was the best I could do.)
Early onset of decay is a serious problem for zombies. Diet doesn’t matter, and exercise can do only so much to keep the muscles limber. In my line of work, I get battered more often than I want to admit. (In fact, my arm was torn off once when I fought with a gigantic monster, but the arm had been successfully reattached.) Each time Mavis Wannovich worked her magic, I felt fresh as the day I was buried, so I didn’t begrudge them a little inside information for the Penny Dreadful series. A deal was a deal. As a bonus, I would return the signed books to them in person.
For now, though, I had to get ready for a new client conference. The cases don’t solve themselves.