After walking the Wannovich sisters straight to their door like a gentleman, I was glad to be away from the tantalizing pork smell—I’m not completely immune either.
Heading back to the Chambeaux & Deyer offices, I heard the don’t-mess-with-me voice of Officer McGoohan at the next corner as he chewed someone out. McGoo didn’t have any children, but he would have done a good job bellowing “You kids quit roughhousing and give me some peace so I can watch the game!”
In front of a boarded-up lingerie store that had been empty for years, I saw the unmistakable plaid sport coat that identified Brondon Morris. Four workers clad in dark-blue JLPN company overalls had been busy pasting posters across the storefront.
“You can’t post those here,” McGoo said. “It’s an eyesore.”
In a wheedling but cheerful voice, Brondon responded, “It’s just an advertisement, Officer. You can’t prevent us from trying to sell our products. That’s a restraint of free trade.”
McGoo’s voice rose as he continued to shake his head. “Take it up with a Constitutional lawyer. Meanwhile, let’s pretend I’m a member of the Keep the Unnatural Quarter Beautiful committee. I’m not letting you just plaster that crap wherever you want.”
The broadsheets advertised the upcoming release of the new line of necroceuticals. Poster after poster showed grinning vampires brushing their teeth, zombies spraying their underarms with aerosol deodorant, beautiful witches shampooing their hair with thick suds that foamed an unsettling shade of green, a husky male werewolf holding a bottle of cologne while two female werewolves, clearly in heat, sniffed his fur. Each poster said: Call Our Toll-Free Number for a Free Sample Kit!
“We spent a great deal of money printing these posters for the advertising blitz, Officer,” Brondon insisted. “We’re entitled to our right to publicity.”
I stepped up and caught their attention. “I’ve got a colleague who might listen to your case, Mr. Morris. She’s interested in theoretical and moral issues.” It wasn’t a serious suggestion; I doubted Robin would take Brondon Morris as a client anyway.
McGoo brightened as he saw me. “Dead Man Walking!”
Brondon Morris blinked at me, then scowled. “Thank you, Mr. Chambeaux, but I’d consider it a conflict of interest, in light of your firm’s prior work to destroy the reputation of Jekyll Lifestyle Products and Necroceuticals.”
I shrugged. “Just offering to help.”
McGoo was not going to back down, I could see it in his eyes. “Look, Mr. Morris, I’m not saying that you can’t advertise your products, only that you can’t put these posters on this building. Did you get permission from the owner?”
Brondon was flustered. “The owner of this building has been dead for seven years. I checked.”
“Are you sure he hasn’t come back from the grave? Barring that, find one of his heirs.”
The JLPN workers stood looking bored, holding stacks of posters and waiting for further instructions.
Brondon tried a different tack. “It’ll only be for a few days, Officer. I promise, we’ll take every poster down right after the product line is launched. We’ve already had a great financial setback because our first twenty thousand broadsheets had an unfortunate typo.” He pointed toward the nearest one stapled to the boarded-up window. “A proofreader missed it, and the entire first printing came out offering a Free Sample Kid—which generated entirely the wrong kind of excitement among unnaturals! JLPN didn’t notice until after we had distributed hundreds of the posters. We had to pulp them all and start from scratch.”
McGoo looked sympathetic, but only a little. He turned to me. “What do you think, Shamble?”
“I’m biased. Our paralegal tried a sample of the Zom-Be-Fresh stuff back when she was still alive,” I said. “It gave her a horrible rash.”
“Horrible rash? Hmm, you think JLPN products contain a toxic substance?” McGoo asked. “Maybe I should have the department look into that. If the company is distributing dangerous—”
“We apologized for that!” Brondon said with a sniff. “But we have always made it quite clear that JLPN products are designed for unnaturals only. We’re not responsible for improper use.”
I was having fun, but I decided I had yanked Brondon’s chain enough. “No need, McGoo. We did a chemical analysis from a lab we trust, but it came back negative. Zom-Be-Fresh contains nothing on the list of toxic or prohibited substances. Sheyenne just had an allergic reaction.”
“I’m allergic to a few fragrances in toiletry items too,” McGoo confessed. “That’s why I don’t use deodorant.”
“Oh, that’s why,” I quipped.
McGoo barked orders to the overall-clad workers. “Tear those posters down and keep this plywood clean and beautiful. You’re welcome to get written permission from other storefront owners, Mr. Morris, but don’t just go poaching any blank wall space you find.”
Though fuming, Brondon directed the workers to do as they were told.
As we stepped back to watch the cleanup project, McGoo asked conversationally, “Hey, Shamble, why do zombies pierce their nipples?” From the stupid grin on his face, I knew I didn’t want to hear the answer. “To have a place to hang the air fresheners.”
Instead of laughing, I decided to change the subject. “Any luck catching the big lummox that wrecked Mrs. Saldana’s mission?”
“Not yet. And there’ve been three other incidents since then, major smashup jobs, and another dozen storefront windows shattered—meant to look like the work of our big brute, but I’m not so sure.”
“Why else would somebody be smashing windows? Delinquents?” Maybe the Straight Edgers?
McGoo shrugged. “So far no suspects and no good leads. I don’t know how such a huge creature can hide. You want to go out monster hunting with me late tonight?”
“Not really,” I said.
“Suit yourself. You must have other fun things to do.”
“Just cases, McGoo. Always cases.”