phlegm, “Pick up your name tags and meal tickets at the reception table.”
People and monsters milled about inside the library’s main hall, drinking blood, champagne, or sparkling water from fluted glasses. A stack of programs rested on a polished table next to rows of handwritten name tags. After Robin and I chose our meal selections from chicken, vegetarian, or unnatural, I found my name tag, fumbled with my fingers to peel off the adhesive backing, and pressed the HELLO MY NAME IS: Dan Chambeaux sticker to my jacket collar.
Sequined gowns, enameled nails and claws, glittering diamonds—it was a heady experience. Thanks to the high bar set by Bela Lugosi, vampires were quite comfortable in evening formal wear, but I had never seen a full-furred werewolf in a tux and tails before. Despite my rented outfit, I felt woefully underdressed.
Mrs. Saldana waved us over. She wore a flower-print church dress and a string of obviously artificial pearls around her throat. “Mr. Chambeaux, Ms. Deyer! I’m so glad you came.” We were relieved to have someone to talk to, but she was already bustling away. “Follow me—there’s someone I’d like you to meet.” Even with my deadened senses I could tell she wore a lot of perfume.
Irwyn Goodfellow was chatting politely with two well-dressed zombies and a troll. Mrs. Saldana came up to him, touched his arm. “Irwyn, sorry to interrupt, but these are the people I was telling you about.”
Goodfellow was a big, solidly made man with broad shoulders above a broad chest above a broad but rock-hard waist. His face was square; if anything, his jaw was wider than the top of his head. Bristly light brown hair stood out in a lavish flattop that made his head look like a thistle. His smile was infectious, his grip warm and dripping with sincerity as he took my hand and folded his other hand atop it, giving a firm squeeze.
“Dan Chambeaux, private investigator! My good friend Mrs. Saldana tells me that you and Ms. Deyer have been a great help to her.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Goodfellow,” I said. “I understand you’ve been quite helpful to her yourself.”
He gave a hearty laugh. “Mrs. Saldana said you and I would get along—we have a lot in common.” Goodfellow turned to Robin and graciously gave her a warm handshake as well. “We may have to recruit you to help with the Mildew Society, Ms. Deyer. We can always use volunteers, especially ones with legal experience.”
“Always happy to join a good cause,” Robin said.
“Good deeds make you feel all warm and tingly inside, don’t they?” Goodfellow touched his chest. “I’m thrilled to have a chance to use my family’s wealth for benevolent means. So many people and monsters need help. Being named the year’s greatest humanitarian—no pun intended—is gratifying, but that’s not why I do it. I’m the white sheep of a family with a, shall we say, checkered history.”
A waiter walked by carrying a tray of drinks. Goodfellow and Mrs. Saldana chose sparkling water. I avoided the blood, considered the champagne, then decided on water myself, too. Bruno had suggested I keep myself hydrated.
Mrs. Saldana was beaming. “I didn’t tell you my good news, Mr. Chambeaux. Irwyn has just given the Hope and Salvation Mission a very generous endowment, enough operational funding to carry us through the next five years. It changes everything for us.”
Goodfellow looked giddy with his own sense of satisfaction. “You do good work, Mrs. Saldana, and good deeds should be rewarded—that’s always been my mantra.” When he turned to me, I felt that he was focusing his entire attention, his complete being, on me and Robin. “Now tell me about these golems who need help. The situation sounds dreadful—their plight simply must be addressed.”
After Robin explained, Goodfellow shook his head in deep concern. “It’s a damn shame, that’s what it is. Let me think about how I can apply my money and resources, but I’m a man who acts quickly. I won’t drag my feet, and there won’t be any bureaucratic problems. We’ll help those golems, I promise.”
I lowered my voice and got serious. “I’m sorry to mention this, Mr. Goodfellow, but you might have a conflict of interest. Those slave golems were manufacturing souvenirs for the Smile Syndicate’s new line of gift shops.”
Goodfellow looked deeply troubled. “Smile Syndicate work is all Missy’s doing. She’s my sister, and I have to love her, but sometimes I’m ashamed of how my family wastes its wealth on selfish gain. Missy and