I used to be close, but when I had my epiphany and decided to devote my life to kindness and charity, we had a . . . falling out. She calls me Goody-Two-Shoes, as if it’s an insult! She just doesn’t understand the joy that fills the heart and soul simply from being a good person.”
As the reception continued, Goodfellow excused himself to continue his duty dance, talking with other rich investors or industrialists. Envelopes containing donation checks piled up in offering trays around the hall.
When we were summoned to the banquet by a loud gong, Robin and I found our assigned table, which we shared with two loquacious witches who knew far too much about celebrity gossip, two brothers—full-moon-only werewolves—who bickered and snarled at each other throughout the meal, and an uncomfortable-looking human businessman who said barely a word.
Robin did her best to maintain the conversation through the salad, main course, and dessert. I didn’t have much appetite, but I politely moved my food around on the plate. In the back of my mind, I pondered whom I might recruit as private security for the Full Moon, and I also worried about Francine being let go from the Goblin Tavern.
At the end of the meal, we were all treated (if that was the proper word) to a musical performance by a banshee solo artist who had recently had a top-forty single. As she sang, numerous glasses shattered, and audience members squeezed their eyes shut and covered their ears; at least a dozen lost the meals they had just consumed. Then everyone applauded, the banshee took a bow, and the award ceremony began.
Mrs. Saldana looked confident as she stepped up to the microphone, adjusted it to her height, and thumped it with her finger to gain everyone’s attention. “Ladies, gentlemen, and others, tonight we are pleased to present an award to a most deserving individual, a man who has selflessly given his time, energy, and, most importantly, his wealth”—she paused for a quick chuckle from the audience—“to help underprivileged unnaturals. He founded the Monster Legal Defense Workers Society, of which I am now the proud chairperson of the board. He gave a generous donation to my Hope and Salvation Mission. He instituted numerous rehabilitation programs and sponsored clothing drives for those newly risen from the grave.
“Not only has Irwyn Goodfellow done many good things, he is also a wonderful human being—and I hope you unnaturals won’t hold that against him!” She paused for another chuckle. “One of these days, we’ll name a street after him in the Quarter, but for tonight, I am proud to present this plaque.”
She lifted a small polished marble slab, like a miniature tombstone, on which Goodfellow’s name had been engraved. The audience applauded as the big man rose from his seat. Bowing and nodding to the people at his banquet table, grinning benevolently, he sauntered up to the podium.
“Thank you, thank you all. I don’t do this for the awards or the recognition.” He lifted the marble slab to admire it. “I am grateful to receive this wonderful plaque, but I see no reason to stop there. Tonight, when talking with the Unnatural Quarter’s own private investigator, Dan Chambeaux, I learned of the terrible plight being faced by one hundred formerly enslaved golems. Whenever I hear about monsters or people in need, I just have to do something about it. I was touched by their situation, and I hope you will be, too.”
He leaned forward on the podium. “We each have to make at least one small improvement so that the world can be a better place for everyone. I have decided to create an Adopt-a-Golem program with the goal of finding gainful employment for those clay souls. It’ll be a charitable and tax-exempt program, and we’ll start accepting donations tonight. Ms. Deyer?” He looked around the audience until he spotted Robin. “Would you be willing to do the legal paperwork to set up the project?”
“Of course I would,” she said. “Pro bono, of course.”
CHAPTER 9
Some news was just too good for a phone call.
On the morning after the charity banquet, I drove Robin’s car to the residential area of town, where I found Tiffany’s house, a fixer-upper that would always be a fixer-upper no matter how much work she put into it. The shingles were bright and black, recently replaced; Tiffany had probably done the work herself (at night).
The garage door was open, and Tiffany stood inside out of direct sunlight as she balanced