As we drove away from the museum, pleased at having averted a tragedy, Robin suggested we make a surprise visit to Jekyll Lifestyle Products and Necroceuticals. “We might unsettle him.” She gave me an eager smile. “And it’ll give us something to report to Miranda next time she pops in.”
“I like the way you think,” I said. Maybe I would pick up a clue about why Jekyll had been sneaking around with Brondon Morris. “Besides, we’re out together anyway. It’s good for you to get away from the office.”
“Visiting a chemical factory that makes perfumes, deodorants, and toiletries isn’t much of an outing.”
I had been inside the factory before—illicitly—while investi-gating the garlic-laced shampoo lawsuit. I’d posed as a worker on the chemical mixing lines and then, after hiding out at the tail end of a shift, I crept into the main admin offices after hours and got my hands on proof that the shampoo contamination was a matter of record and that JLPN was culpable. The company complained to the court about the evidence submission and appealed the ruling, but they never managed to pin burglary charges on me, although the judge found it unrealistically convenient that an “anonymous source” would produce the precise documents Robin needed to win the case and secure a large judgment.
When we pulled into the JLPN guest parking lot, Robin’s car was definitely the oldest one there. A limousine sprawled across two spots, both of which were designated “For Harvard Stanford Jekyll.”
Inside the fence, the mammoth industrial building was capped by a tall smokestack spurting purple and green fumes. The sign in front of the entrance said Jekyll Lifestyle Products & Necroceuticals—We Bring Fresh Back to a Stale World. Then, in smaller letters, An Equal Opportunity Employer. In front, a tan-brick administrative office building sat apart from the factory.
“It smells like a thousand mall candle shops crammed into a trash compactor and left out in the sun,” Robin said as she got out of the rusty Maverick.
I saw a loading dock and many trucks parked in a line, ready to be loaded with the new line of necroceuticals for distribution in the Quarter. A flurry of workers used hand trucks and forklifts to haul crates out of the chemical factory; each box was stenciled with Try our New Line! The workers rushed around like turbo-charged termites. A few golems would have been great for heavy labor like this, but as far as I could see, all of the JLPN employees were human.
A delivery truck backed up to the big doors, and men hurried forward with pallets of new shampoos, deodorants, liquid soaps, perfumes. As soon as a fully loaded truck drove off, the next empty one backed up to the dock.
A lawyer on a mission, Robin walked briskly to the front door of the admin building, and I pulled it open for her, trying to formulate what I could accomplish by seeing Harvey Jekyll face-to-face. Robin didn’t seem to have a plan.
At the foyer reception desk sat a neckless man with a crew cut, business suit, and honest-to-goodness mirrored sunglasses. He looked as if he’d been rejected by the Secret Service Presidential Protection Detail because he was too large and intimidating. I’d seen him before—standing guard at the Chaney & Son warehouse the previous night.
“How may I help you?” The neckless man looked at Robin, then frowned at me. “He’s not welcome here. Human employees and guests only.” He said it in the same tone that, in another time and place, he might have told Robin she wasn’t welcome because of the color of her skin.
“That hurts my feelings,” I said sarcastically.
Robin was more indignant. “That’s an odd stance for a company giving unnaturals the opportunity to live normal and happy lives.”
“I don’t make the rules. No zombies allowed. No unnaturals of any kind. Security reasons.”
“My partner and I have business with Mr. Jekyll,” Robin said. “I am the attorney representing Mrs. Jekyll in their divorce, and we have some questions for her husband. His attorney may wish to be present.”
With a flustered sigh, the massive receptionist punched an extension on the phone, spoke gruffly, frowned. He hung up. “Wait here.” A moment later, the locked security door buzzed and clicked, then swung open by itself (on hydraulics—nothing to do with ghosts or haunted houses). “End of the hall. Big office. Can’t miss it.”
As we walked down the hall to Jekyll’s office, I could hear a stereo playing, sparkly 1970s pop music, either the Carpenters or the Captain and Tennille. In my experience, most villains prefer dramatic classical music or Wagnerian opera. Maybe Harvey Jekyll liked to be in a happy mood.
As soon as we stepped through the door, Jekyll climbed to his feet. “What’s this about you being Miranda’s attorney?”
He was a small, pale-skinned man with a large head, even larger eyes (which reminded me of the zombie puppies in Alvin’s painting), and no hair. All in all, the type of person who might keep a plain gold ring that he liked to call Precious. His scalp wrinkled like a shriveled apple when he raised his eyebrows. Goblin mothers probably warned their teenaged sons that if they masturbated too much, they would end up looking like Harvey Jekyll.
I was afraid Robin had let the cat out of the bag, but she didn’t seem perturbed. “You filed for divorce, Mr. Jekyll, and your wife has retained my services to protect her interests in the settlement. You have been duly informed. I sent repeated inquiries and notices—at least sixteen—to your counsel by registered mail. I have the delivery confirmations.” She looked around the room. “Are you sure you don’t want your attorney present?”
He snorted. “If my lawyer was worth anything, the divorce would already be final.” Ignoring Robin as if scraping gum off his shoe, Jekyll swung his gaze over to me. He leaned forward, noting the repaired bullet hole in my forehead. “You don’t look much the worse for wear after being shot, Mr. Chambeaux.”
“Amazing what morticians can do these days, but I’m still only fit for the scratch-and-dent sale.” I tapped my brow, feeling the putty that Bruno had so skillfully applied. “Maybe you have an idea who shot me? Some personal involvement perhaps?”
The little man’s face screwed itself into a scowl. “You’ve already cost this company enough money—both of you. I wouldn’t squander the price of a bullet. You were a pain in the backside while alive, Mr. Chambeaux, and now you continue to harass me after you’re dead? I don’t take kindly to anyone slinging mud on my family name.”
I shrugged. “I have nothing against your family name. It’s you I don’t like.”
He had had enough banter. “Now, is there some reason you both came here, or were you just trying to ruffle my feathers?” He scratched his bald scalp. “I assure you, I have none to ruffle. And no secrets to hide.”
Robin said, “Why do you refuse to allow unnaturals into your factory, Mr. Jekyll? Your sign out front claims that you’re an Equal Opportunity Employer. How is an unnatural supposed to apply for a job at JLPN if he’s not allowed on the premises?” I noted the glint in her eyes, sure she was weighing the possibilities of a discrimination lawsuit.
Jekyll pinched his lips together. “The statutes governing nondiscriminatory hiring practices define the acceptable labor pool as human. The rules do not cover unnaturals. I don’t have to let them on my property.”
“And yet your product line caters to unnaturals,” I said. “A strange business choice if you dislike them so much.”
He sniffed. “I have nothing against the unnaturals, but I am concerned about corporate espionage. It’s only a matter of time before some monster entrepreneur decides to get into this highly lucrative market, and I have to protect JLPN trade secrets.”
I realized that Jekyll probably did have good reason to fear the competition. A line of necroceutical products manufactured by an unnatural instead of a human would have an obvious advantage among the customer base.
On the office stereo, the Captain and Tennille finished singing “Muskrat Love,” and now the Carpenters were “On Top of the World.” I had a sneaking suspicion Barry Manilow would be up next.
Next to the stereo sat a strange device that looked like a bullhorn mounted on top of a toaster. Since 1970s easy-listening pop did not require special amplification, I wondered what the gadget did. I fiddled with the controls, mainly because I thought that would annoy Jekyll.
It did. “Don’t touch that!”
“Why not?” I turned another knob. “What is this thing?”
“A prototype.” He scuttled over and snatched the device from me and set it on a shelf behind his desk. “A portable ectoplasmic defibrillator, designed to scramble—and hopefully erase—any trespassing ghosts. Ghosts make the most insidious industrial spies, slipping in where they’re not wanted, snooping around.” He narrowed his eyes. “You can’t be too careful. The prototype is still in the testing phase—I’m having trouble finding ghosts who will volunteer for the trials.”
I was glad Sheyenne hadn’t come along with us.
Since Robin didn’t have a plan for this meeting, I threw a curveball in hopes that it would rattle Jekyll. I liked to see where the red herrings would swim. “For one of my investigations, I’ve been monitoring the activities of Brondon Morris. He may be involved in some unsavory activities, possibly even a conspiracy to overthrow JLPN. Thought you’d want to know.”
Jekyll blinked, then chuckled. “Brondon would never do that! He’s a very important person in this company, one of our most talented chemists, and by far the best regional sales manager.”
I watched his expression carefully. “Are you familiar with a defunct company called Chaney and Son? Mr. Morris has been meeting with a secret group inside their boarded-up warehouse.” I was just testing him, stringing him along.
“I know nothing about that,” he said, but the alarmed look on his face said otherwise. “I’ll speak to Brondon about it. If he’s sneaking around with unsavory types, I wouldn’t want his public actions to adversely affect our company image. This is a crucial time for JLPN with the release of our whole new line of products. We can’t afford any bad press.”
I reminded myself that Miranda was our client. Even if Jekyll and his lapdog were doing something illicit, such activities didn’t necessarily affect the divorce settlement. The two men could have been participating in an illegal cockatrice fighting ring, or smuggling body parts to mad scientist laboratories. What mattered to me was finding a way to break the rigid prenuptial agreement.
Sure enough, after the Carpenters finished mellowing their way through a glycemic coma, Barry Manilow started in with “I Write the Songs.”
“We’d better go, Dan,” Robin said. Clearly, we weren’t going to get any more information from Harvey Jekyll, but I think it was the music that made her anxious to leave.
“Say hello to my wife for me,” Jekyll said. “You probably see her more than I do.”