plywood, colored paper, and dyed fabrics. Now it was a sodden mess of ash and scraps—nothing salvageable whatsoever. The firefighters had been thorough and enthusiastic when they quenched the blaze. A complete and total loss.
Shakespeare had given me a detailed inventory of the possessions lost in the blaze, including hard-to-find Elizabethan costumes, large Comedy and Tragedy masks for the play, and antique furniture, not to mention the set itself. The ghost had also tallied the performance money they’d previously earned per show, so as to estimate loss of income. It was a dismal amount, however, and I could see that the theatrical company definitely needed those arts grants (or, preferably, bigger audiences). If we could prove malicious arson, the haunted acting company might generate some sympathy and enough donations to keep themselves going—provided they could afford to build another set.
With my shoe I nudged a blackened piece of sheetrock, hoping that some brilliant revelation would scuttle out. A crime lab would have to run a chemical analysis to determine whether a fuel or accelerant, or a carelessly tossed cigarette butt, had been used to start the blaze. I had little doubt that this was an intentional fire set by someone who wanted to harm the Shakespearean company. But I needed proof.
The cemetery was a popular place, and I hoped someone or something might have seen a shadowy, sinister figure lurking among the crypts and tombstones after dark. (Although how would a witness be able to tell a sneaky arsonist from the perfectly normal shadowy and sinister figures that lurked in the cemetery?) I needed someone with a sharp eye for detail.
The dusk shadows were lengthening, but it wasn’t yet dark enough that nocturnal monsters had ventured out to run their everynight errands. I moved from crypt to crypt, looking for broken seals and open doorways, calling out “Hello?” as I peered inside. Cemetery addresses were incomprehensible to me: plot and tombstone numbers, rural crypt delivery.
I was looking for Edgar Allan, a simpering troll who coopted unoccupied crypts and rented them out on short-term leases, although he had no legal right to do so. He had set up his real estate headquarters office in one of them.
All the signs outside the stone door were a dead giveaway, each one sporting a logo of the real estate agency, a smiling photo of the troll’s gray and drawn face, and a phone number. Cheerful service—alive or dead!
The scaly simian creature had moved a pair of office-surplus metal file cabinets and a desk into the crypt, installed a telephone, and set up a metal bookshelf that held three-ring binders marked Recent Listings. Sooner or later he would get his own website.
The first time I’d blundered into the tomb, hoping to get away from Larry the werewolf hit man, the troll wasn’t overly glad to see me. In fact, Edgar Allan’s burly partner Burt—an evictions specialist—had threatened to throw me back onto the cemetery lawn, flat on my face. Now, though, we were old friends, and Edgar brightened to see me darkening his doorway.
“Mr. Chambeaux, how can I help you with your real estate needs?” He rubbed his gnarled gray fingers together. When he shook my hand, his palms were dry and dusty. (I had expected slimy.) “Do you need more of my business cards? Have you handed them out to your clients?” He pulled open a desk drawer and yanked out more cards.
“I’ve still got plenty, Mr. Allan. Just here to ask some questions. For a case.”
“Happy to cooperate—I help you, and you help me, right? Never underestimate the power of networking.”
“I’ll do what I can,” I said. “I’ve been hired to investigate the recent fire here.”
“My, that blaze drew quite a crowd. In fact, if those Shakespeare plays attracted audiences that large, the actors wouldn’t have any financial troubles, if you know what I mean.” The troll raised his lofty, scaly eyebrows.
“The crime-scene investigators will be doing an analysis, but I think the best chance for solving this case would be to track down a witness. And since you’re usually here, and you always keep your eyes and ears open, I was hoping you might have noticed something or someone.”
Edgar Allan settled back in his seat and pulled out one of the binders of recent listings. He pretended to distract himself as he pondered, but he turned the binder in my direction, flipping from page to page, showing off properties zoned for private businesses, small offices, even a new business park. He had