Miranda Jekyll had suggested meeting at Basilisk herself, claiming it was one of her favorite nightclubs. I doubted any Straight Edgers would set foot inside a place like that, so we’d be safe enough from any of her husband’s goons.
I felt more uneasy about having Sheyenne join me there, but she was adamant. “I’m in this with you, Beaux. I slipped into Jekyll’s study, I got the ring, I was there when you got shot—you obviously need my help.” She had given me a mischievous smile. “I’ll meet you at Basilisk.”
Sheyenne hadn’t been back to the nightclub since her death, and I was afraid the visit would be a traumatic experience, but she insisted she had to face it. She had her own reasons: The meeting with Miranda gave her an excuse to keep an eye on Ivory.
After leaving McGoo and the brawling shamblers, I headed across the Quarter to Little Transylvania, arriving at Basilisk only a few minutes late. I entered the dimly lit lounge and looked around, expecting to find Jekyll’s wife waiting for me, impatient, annoyed.
Miranda wasn’t there yet. Naturally. She hated to be on any schedule at all, and was pathologically, rather than fashionably, late. I should have known.
A semitransparent Sheyenne appeared next to me with an uncertain expression. I could practically see the flood of memories crossing her face as she looked around the nickel-appointed bar and the tables bunched close to the stage where Ivory would sing. I wanted to put my arm around her.
“This place …” Sheyenne said, fighting off a shudder. “Right now, I could really use a hug.”
I reached out to air-pat her arm; it was the best I could do. “It’ll be all right—I’m here. I won’t let anything else happen to you.”
“So many memories. How can I not hate this place?”
I forced a smile. “They’re not all bad memories, are they? This is where we met.”
She responded with a wistful expression. “No, not all bad, I guess. But given the choice, I’d rather still be alive.”
“So would I.”
At the bar, Fletcher Knowles gave me a cautious nod, then his eyes widened when he recognized the ghost beside me. “Sheyenne! You’re back—It’s good to see you.” He bustled out from behind the bar. “Really sorry about what happened … and then Dan got killed too. What a mess.” Standing awkwardly in front of us, Fletcher shook his head. “Did he tell you I was the one who found his body in the alley? Small world.” He let out a nervous chuckle. “Quite a testimonial to Basilisk, I guess—my customers keep coming back even after they’re dead.” He glanced at the still-empty stage. “Now here’s an idea—I can make it open-mic night, if you like. These people would love to hear you sing again.”
“I don’t know, Fletcher,” she said. “What would Ivory think?”
“I’m the boss. She can move over if I tell her to.”
I wasn’t convinced who would win in a shouting match between Fletcher and the big vamp diva, but Sheyenne wouldn’t change her mind anyway. Eventually, the manager backed off. “Okay, suit yourself. Can I at least buy you a drink?”
Sheyenne looked uncertain, glanced at me, then back at Fletcher. “I haven’t had one in a while. What do ghosts usually drink?”
“Oh, any sort of distilled spirits.”
“I’ll take you up on it—as long as you’re buying for Dan too.”
“No problem.”
Fletcher pulled me a beer, then poured a double bourbon and water for Sheyenne. I said, “Let’s go find a table close to the stage—if you’re ready for that.”
“Oh, I can’t wait. When that bitch starts to sing, I want to be up close, right where she can see me.” Carrying her drink, Sheyenne drifted across the room. We picked an unclaimed table up front. I looked around—still no sign of Miranda. Twenty minutes late now. I thought she would have been anxious to hear what we had found in her husband’s study….
Taking care of business, I handed Sheyenne the Zom-Be-Fresh sachet and the goo specimen from the disintegrating puddle of Franklin Galworthy in front of the mission. After I told her what had happened to the dapper zombie, she looked appalled. “I need you to contact your friend at the chem lab. There’s got to be some clue here as to what made Mr. Galworthy dissolve.”
Sheyenne took the samples, regarded the Fresh Loam sachet. “I’ll call in a few favors again, but I’ll bet it comes up negative.”
The tone of background conversation inside the lounge changed as Ivory emerged from backstage. The big vamp came into the bar area, swaying in an exaggerated half-corkscrew walk to accentuate her assets. Each time she turned, her breasts swayed with the movement about a half turn out of sync, trying to catch up. Her smile was very wide to emphasize her full set of teeth and fangs, which sparkled as if she had recently endured a very expensive tooth-whitening process.
Sheyenne hissed under her breath, ready to claw the diva’s eyes out. “That bitch poisoned me. I just know it.”
“Play it cool for now,” I said. “Can’t prove it—yet.”
Ivory came forward, smiling even wider when she recognized Sheyenne. “Hoping to steal the show again, sugar? Take my place?” The vamp’s friendly tone sounded as cuddly as an iron maiden. “Good luck if you want to try.”
Sheyenne had her spectral hackles up. “I was good at singing, but I didn’t need it—I would have moved on soon enough. I have a lot of talents. You never had anything to worry about.”
Ivory gave a throaty laugh. “I was never worried about a scrawny little waif like you, sugar. With that warbly voice?”
“Then you didn’t need to kill me,” Sheyenne said point-blank.
Now the buxom vampire laughed even louder. “You think I killed you? Why would I bother? The competition helps me keep my edge. I always have the whole audience in the palm of my hand.”
Now the vamp turned to me, working the full glamour of her personality. “I’m so glad you’re here to listen tonight, Dan.” Ivory leaned forward to make sure I got a good view of her cleavage; the chasm was so enormous it could have been seen from two blocks away. “I’ll do a special number for you, make you forget all about that willowy little ghost. It’s not as if you can do anything with her now.”
Sheyenne lifted her glass of bourbon and soda and threw it directly in Ivory’s face. The big vamp spluttered. “You little bitch!” Ivory extended her clawlike nails, thrust out her fangs, and the audience gasped in shock. Instinctively, I lurched to my feet to put myself between the two, although a vampire couldn’t touch the ghost anyway.
Just then I heard an edgy, cackling laugh. “I had no idea this was audience participation night, sweethearts.” Miranda Jekyll had arrived and instantly became the center of attention. Ivory stormed off to regain her dignity and clean up.
“Sorry about the drama, Mrs. Jekyll.” I gestured Miranda to the empty chair. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
In a fluid movement, she slithered into the offered seat. “I eagerly await your report, Mr. Chambeaux, but first things first. Isn’t somebody going to buy me a drink?” Though Fletcher was dismayed to watch the retreating diva, he hurried over to our table. Miranda looked up at him. “Ah, there you are at last. I’ll have a gin martini please, three olives, very large, very dry, and very dirty.”
The conversation in the nightclub grudgingly returned to normal. I noticed that the three zombie cougars—Victoria, Sharon, and Cindy—had also ensconced (or entombed) themselves at the bar, gaunt and skeletal, fully painted. Compared to those three, Miranda Jekyll looked ravishing. The trio of cadaverous women ordered colorful fruity concoctions and sat together, waiting for someone to hit on them.
Before long, Brondon Morris did. He entered Basilisk wearing a different plaid suit this time—I imagined he must have a whole closet full of them—and chatted up the three undead women, paid for their round of drinks.
When Miranda followed my gaze, she emitted a low growl from her throat. Jealous? Another piece clicked into place. She’d been quite open about the fact that she had her own affairs. Was she cheating on Harvey Jekyll with that man?
“Brondon Morris is a loathsome human being,” she said as if reading my mind, not tearing her eyes from him. “A little turd in a bad suit.”
All right, probably not an affair, then.
“Brondon isn’t my favorite person, either,” I said. “I know my own reasons. What do you have against him?”
“He’s an ambitious opportunistic climber who wormed his way into JLPN and wants to be a big fish. He’ll keep looking for ponds until he finds an empty one just his size.”
“So you two don’t have any sort of … romantic history?” I asked.
She let out a peal of laughter that caused heads to turn. “Oh, sweetheart, please! I prefer a man with more hair on his chest.” She drew a sharp red-enameled finger across the cocktail table, leaving a deep scratch. She gave me an appraising look, then addressed Sheyenne’s ghost. “And someone who has hot blood pumping. You have nothing to worry about, sweetheart. Dan Chambeaux’s not my type.”
At the bar, Brondon drifted away from the three cougars and engaged in an intense conversation with Fletcher. He handed over several samples from his case before shaking the bartender’s hand and turning with a generalized wave of farewell to the clientele in Basilisk, although no one but me was looking at him. Then he scuttled away.
Miranda’s martini arrived, and she drank half of it in a gulp, as if to wash away her thoughts of Brondon Morris, or of garish plaid in general. “Now then, to business. You said you made some progress? What did you find in Harvey’s study?”
I leaned closer, lowering my voice. “Something that might be useful in leveraging a settlement.”
“My, I love leverage,” she chortled. “What is it?”
I told her how Sheyenne had slipped into the study, looking in the locked drawer where Miranda had suggested. “Not only is your husband involved in Straight Edge, he’s very involved. In fact, he’s the Grand Wizard himself.”
Miranda chuckled. “Now, isn’t that an embarrassing little detail about a man who’s launching a new line of products for unnaturals! Harvey, Harvey, you evil little man—Grand Wizard of the Straight Edgers! Threatening to expose that ring will make Harvey squirm, all right. Silly little boys with their silly little prejudices and silly little costumes.”
I added, “Only a few hours ago, someone—something—broke into the Straight Edge offices and slaughtered four human volunteers. That’s going to put the group squarely in the news. Lots of publicity.”
Sheyenne wasn’t so convinced. “Yes, but they were murdered by a monster. What if public sympathy shifts to the poor Straight Edge victims torn apart by intolerant unnaturals?”
Someone chose that moment to let out a piercing scream that turned our attention to the bar. Cougar Sharon reeled back in horror as Cindy’s appletini glass slipped from her grasp and shattered on the floor. The grayish necrotic skin on Cindy’s forearm and hand also slipped off the bone, like a thick floppy rubber glove. She put her other hand to her face and let out a scream, just before her jawbone fell off. Her fingers pressed into her cheek and sank through to the skull. Her other arm fell off. She collapsed onto the bar stool and kept falling to the floor in dripping, dissolving pieces.
Other patrons made sounds of disgust. Many backed away.
Next, Sharon’s head lolled to one side. As she reached up to hold it in place, the head fell completely off. She managed to catch her hair, dangling her detached head for a moment as her face continued to contort and scream. Then the hair ripped off the scalp like a hunk of sod, and Sharon’s head fell face-first to the nightclub floor. Her body slumped forward.
Victoria had an extra five seconds of stunned panic that turned to sad resignation as she also flash-rotted like a time-lapse video and fell into a pile of suppurating goo that mingled with her two com-panions, pooling together around the three now-empty cocktail dresses.
The zombie patrons of Basilisk were the first to flee. Vampires and werewolves, who were not usually squeamish, looked grossed out.
“We should get out of here, Mrs. Jekyll.” I wasn’t sure what was causing this gooey crisis, but I feared it might spread. First Mr. Galworthy and now the cougars. Could it be some kind of undeadly epidemic? And what if I was vulnerable too.
Miranda finished the rest of her martini in a gulp. “I believe you’re right, Mr. Chambeaux.” With remarkable speed, she flitted out of the nightclub in the crowd of retreating patrons.
Wearing a sour expression, Fletcher Knowles, went to the back room and brought out a mop and bucket.
Ivory stepped out onto the stage, freshly made up and ready for her set. In disbelief she watched her admirers stampede for the doors. She grabbed the microphone, but saw it was a lost cause. She shot an angry glance toward Sheyenne, as if the ghost had caused the disaster.
With pure showmanship, Ivory announced, “Thank you for coming. That’s our show for tonight, but I’m here all week!” She ducked back to her dressing room at the rear of the club.