Late the next morning, a pleading arrived by courier from Howard Phillips Publishing—a service copy sent to us with the original filed in court. Not unexpectedly, the publisher’s legal department refuted Robin’s demand for reparations and declined to remove the defective spell book from bookstore shelves.
As Robin read the letter, I watched her expression fall. Her lips pressed together, and then she got that determined look of hers. When I saw her like that, I always thought she could walk into an oncoming tidal wave and the waters would part just to stay out of her way. She handed me the letter so I could read it for myself.
“We at Howard Phillips Publishing categorically deny any culpability in the strange and unfortunate accident that befell Ms. Alma Wannovich. We contend that the plaintiffs, Alma Wannovich and Mavis Wannovich, failed to use our spell book in accordance with the clearly stated guidelines on the copyright page. We assert that all spells published by Howard Phillips are completely harmless. Although Ms. Wannovich’s situation is unquestionably tragic, our good company bears no blame for the aforementioned misfortune. Any public allegation that attempts to cast Howard Phillips Publishing in an unfavorable light will be met with vigorous legal action. We are committed to defending our good name with all the means and financial resources at our disposal.”
I handed the letter back to Robin. “Not good news.”
“It’s just the next step in the dance.” Her fingers tightened on the stationery, wrinkling the paper. “The more strenuously a defendant denies the charges, the more culpable they tend to be.”
“Should I deliver a copy of the letter to Mavis and Alma?” After the tense situation the sisters had experienced on the streets, I didn’t think it was wise to call them away from the safety of their home unless it was absolutely necessary.
Robin set the letter on her desk and flattened the crinkles. “No, I’ll call them. I think it might be time to try an innovative approach—and I’ve got an idea.”
“All right, but if Mavis and Alma need a shoulder to cry on”—I thought of the large sow—”or to nuzzle against, I’ll do my part.”
While Robin talked with the Wannovich sisters on the phone, I decided to check on Mrs. Saldana down at the mission, as well as Sheldon Fennerman, to let them both know about the restraining order against Straight Edge. I grabbed my hat, took my phone and my gun, told Sheyenne where I was going, and headed out.
At the halfway-repaired Hope & Salvation Mission, patrons had returned to take advantage of Mrs. Saldana’s generosity. She made soup and cookies and passed out blood bags donated to the mission by the blood bank (type B positive packs that were near their expiration date; vampires considered that the least flavorful blood type, but Mrs. Saldana liked to reinforce the subliminal message of “be positive”).
Inside the mission, Jerry the zombie was practicing at the piano but not doing very well. A mangy-looking werewolf snoozed on one of the folding chairs. Two bald vampires looked with disdain at the selection of blood bags, obviously not tempted; I wondered if these two had been victims of the garlic-contaminated JLPN shampoo.
A parked truck sat in front of the mission, with large panels that held sheets of window glass. Black Glass, Inc. was stenciled on the passenger door. Out front, Mrs. Saldana spoke with an exceedingly dapper zombie dressed in a black frock coat, a gray checkered vest, and black silk top hat. His eyes were sunk deep in their sockets; long gray hair extended below the brim of the top hat. He looked like the Crypt Keeper in an old horror television show that was experiencing a resurgence in popularity now that it had been repackaged as a slice-of-life comedy. Rather than the usual smell of death one would expect from a zombie in his state of decay, a haze of pungent cologne hung around him. By now, I recognized the distinctive scent of Zom-Be-Fresh.
I walked up to them. “I just came to make sure you’re all right, Mrs. Saldana. No further harassment?”
The old woman brightened. “None whatsoever, Mr. Chambeaux. We’re getting back on our feet now, and I want to thank you for giving me this gentleman’s contact information. He’s doing a fine job.”
The dapper zombie extended his hand. “Franklin Galworthy, owner of Black Glass. I appreciate you recommending us, sir. We’re just a start-up company and can use the customers.”
“Pleased to meet you.” The cologne smell was so strong my eyes began to water. “How’s business?”
Galworthy took off his top hat and wiped an emaciated hand across his forehead. “Quite busy. The brute that did this”—he gestured to where he had framed the smashed windows with new two-by-fours—”has caused a lot of damage across the Quarter. Smashed glass everywhere.” His grin showed off an array of teeth that would have startled even Mr. Sardonicus. “And all those places need replacement windows. At the moment, I’ve got more work than I can handle.”
“I hope you find that horribly destructive creature,” Mrs. Saldana said, fluttering her hand in front of her face. “You’re the detective, Mr. Chambeaux. Any leads?”
“Not yet—Officer McGoohan is on it. If I learn anything, I’ll let him know.”
“Give me two days and I’ll have the mission fixed up, good as new,” said Galworthy. “And if the brute attacks again, we’ll fix it again! That’s the best way to defeat vandals, I say—take away their fun.”
With a flourish like a circus showman, he twirled his top hat, plopped it back on the straggly gray strands covering his cranium, and returned to measuring the window before he cut the glass.
I informed Mrs. Saldana that, thanks to the restraining order, she could have the Straight Edgers thrown in jail for contempt if they bothered her again. The old woman blessed me and gave me a sweet grandmotherly pat on my shoulder.
My cell phone rang. It was Sheyenne. “Beaux, you better head over to Howard Phillips Publishing—something’s brewing. Robin wants you there to see what she’s got up her sleeve.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “I take it the witches weren’t satisfied with the publisher’s response?”
“Robin has a plan, whatever that means.”
“Now I’m curious. Give me the address.”
Leaving the mission, I tried to hail a taxi and, as is typical when you’re in a hurry, I couldn’t find one. It was the middle of the after-noon, with sunlight filling a crystal-clear sky. Since not many unnaturals wanted to be abroad in bright daylight, they had snatched up all the available cabs.
So I set off on foot, stopping at every corner, holding out my hand, trying to catch a taxi. It took me sixteen blocks, and by the time I slid into the backseat of the cab and told the driver where to go, I was only four blocks from my destination. Still, it saved a little time.
When the taxi pulled up in front of the publisher’s building, I paid the driver, tipped him too much, and bounded out of the backseat. I easily spotted Robin looking professional in her business suit; she stood between the black-skirted Mavis and her sow-sister Alma. A TV news van had already arrived, and two men with cameras recorded the small spectacle. Another camera van pulled up just as I arrived.
The headquarters of Howard Phillips Publishing was a modern rectangular structure of stone blocks and steel with reflectorized windows. In order to afford a stand-alone building in the city, they must have been doing well with their spell-book reprints and annotated editions of the Necronomicon, which they claimed were authorized by Abdul Alhazred himself.
Two medium-height, middle-aged men with prominent lantern jaws pushed their way through the main revolving door. They wore white short-sleeved shirts and neckties that were identically askew. At a glance, I guessed that this was the publisher and his entire legal department, twins apparently. From Robin’s research on the case, we had learned that the brothers were Howard Phillips and Phillip Phillips, respectively.
“What’s all this?” said the one I determined to be Phillip. “Go away—you’re trespassing. Shoo!”
The TV cameras turned toward him, and he quailed. The other brother, Howard, grabbed Phillip’s shoulder and pulled him back toward the revolving door, but Robin seized her moment. She raised her voice and spoke for the cameras. “My clients, Mavis and Alma Wannovich”—she pointed to the witch and the sow—”have suffered grievous harm due to errors in spell books published by Howard Phillips. The results are obvious.”
Reporters began scribbling notes. Others held out recorders to capture her words. The news cameras recorded every moment.
In a scorn-filled voice, Robin continued, “However, according to this letter, the publisher insists their books are completely safe.” She waved the letter in the air. “All right, let’s give them the benefit of the doubt.” She patted Alma’s head and flashed the nervous twins a shrewd glance. “If this spell is indeed harmless, as they claim, then we’ll graciously withdraw our complaint.”
Howard and Phillip attempted to retreat, but only succeeded in jamming themselves into the revolving door. “But it is harmless!” the publisher cried.
“Thank you, gentlemen. We accept your assurances, but now for the proof.” Robin gestured, turned her attention back to the cameras. “Mavis will cast this purportedly innocuous spell on Howard and Phillip Phillips. The truth will be obvious to everyone in a minute.” She seemed completely in her element. This was even better than arguing a case in front of a jury. “Be sure to have your cameras tracking this.”
Mavis opened the spell book, turned it so the news crews could capture the cover and its prominent Howard Phillips logo. The sow shifted back and forth, barely able to restrain a joyful squeal. “Summoning the Fairness of Form,” Mavis said and cleared her throat. She fixed her glare on the twins and began to incant the strange words printed in the book.
The reporters held their breath.
“Stop!” cried Howard. “There’s no need for this!”
“But don’t you want us to vindicate you?” Robin said with an innocent smile. “You do believe the spell is harmless, don’t you?”
The reporters loved it. Mavis chanted louder.
Phillip, the “legal department” brother, was even more agitated. “Wait! We wish to reconsider our position!”
Mavis looked at Robin for guidance as to whether she should continue or not.
“We’re listening,” Robin said.
“My brother and I, uh, need to study the matter further. It’s possible that there might have been a typographical error.”
“The typographical error is indisputable,” Robin countered. “We have copies of the original wording and a side-by-side comparison to the version you published.”
“But it hasn’t been shown the misprint caused any direct harm,” Howard spluttered.
“Then by all means, let’s continue and remove any doubt.” Robin nodded at Mavis, and the witch held up the spell book.
Phillip the Legal Department raised his hands again. “That’s not necessary. Without admitting responsibility, perhaps there are some reparations we could offer? A donation to your favorite charity, a revised edition of the spell book—”
“An office with a window,” Mavis said quite clearly.
Howard and Phillip looked at each other, perplexed.
Robin picked up the conversation. “The Wannovich sisters believe that your company is sorely in need of experts to do spell-checking. They have generously agreed to dismiss the suit if you give Mavis Wannovich her own office and a position in Howard Phillips Publishing, at an appropriate salary.”
“And my sister, too,” Mavis said. “She needs an office of her own.”
“But she’s a sow!” cried Phillip.
“Only because of you,” Mavis snapped. “And part of my job will be to research a reversal spell to restore her.” She held the error-ridden spell book like a hand grenade from which she had pulled the pin.
The sow grunted. The cameras continued to record the scene.
“I think … that’s acceptable,” said the publisher.
“I’ll draw up a hiring agreement and a waiver of liability,” said the legal department.
“With my input,” Robin insisted.
“It’s my dream job,” Mavis said. “I’ve always wanted to work in publishing.”