the volatile demon phlegm continued to bubble up from the instrument’s opening, and I doubted it would be playing any more “music.”
As the crowd broke up and the hecklers realized the show was over, I lounged back in my seat at the café. Travis had already disappeared down the street. In the commotion, however, I’d missed another customer who slipped into Timeworn Treasures—now, as she left the shop, I recognized Angela Drake, Missy Goodfellow’s anorexic assistant.
Unlike Travis, Angela looked furtive as she hurried out of the alley. She wore sunglasses and a scarf over her mouse-brown hair. I knew who she was, but I couldn’t tell whether she carried anything. I stood up to get a better look, but Angela vanished in the crowd of protesters and tourists.
Missy Goodfellow’s assistant at the pawnshop? That raised another set of questions entirely.
CHAPTER 19
Although Chambeaux & Deyer does good work and tries to make sure every client is satisfied with our services, we don’t have many repeat customers. Who needs a private eye more than once? Still, we maintain a close relationship with our former clients, and sometimes they come back to visit. Just because.
The Wannovich sisters, Mavis and Alma, were both witches, pleasant and generous ladies, a little lonely. According to Mavis, her sister had a soft spot for me—call it a weekend crush. I try not to fraternize with my clients, and I had no romantic interest in Alma, and not just because she had been transformed into an enormous sow.
The Wannoviches were one of our gold-star cases; from a legal perspective, Robin had achieved exactly what the clients hoped for. The witches had suffered disastrous consequences from an attraction spell gone awry, caused by a misprint in a spell book. Alma—who hadn’t been all that attractive in the first place, judging by the photos Mavis showed us—was turned into a pig. The sisters had sued Howard Phillips Publishing, and the parties eventually reached an unusual settlement. Although Alma was not (yet) restored to human form, the two women accepted positions with the publisher. Mavis was now a senior editor there, while Alma spent her days rooting through the slush pile.
The two dropped in for a visit in the late afternoon. Mavis, a hefty woman who wore a black witch’s dress and pointed hat over a mop of black hair like steel wool, extended a paper plate covered with cellophane wrap. “I brought cookies.” She looked at me with a smile. “Especially for you, Mr. Chambeaux.”
The plate of flattened patties looked unappetizing. The witches might be good at making exotic potions and casting unusual spells, but they weren’t proficient in the kitchen. I also suspected that they might have added a few special ingredients from the magical pantry to soften me up—or harden me up—for amorous intentions. I didn’t need zombie Viagra, nor did I have any intention of becoming the Wannoviches’ zombie plaything. I wanted to keep our relationship on a professional level.
“We’ve come with good news,” Mavis said as she passed around the plate of cookies; Sheyenne carried it into the office kitchenette. “We’re introducing a new line at Howard Phillips Publishing, calling them Penny Dreadfuls, at a special price of only $5.99. Adventures for the unnatural audience, although we’ll distribute them widely across the country.”
Alma snorted with excitement and paced around the front offices. Mavis grinned at me, and I saw that her teeth, although still crooked, had recently been whitened. “You inspired our very first release, Mr. Chambeaux. It’s going to be a detective series about a zombie private investigator and his bleeding-heart human lawyer partner, who solve cases and defend the rights of monsters everywhere.”
“Sounds . . . familiar,” I said.
“We’re calling it Shamble and Die Investigations. Do you get it?” She giggled. “A play on your names.”
“Yes, we get it,” Robin said. “I’m not sure . . .”
“Oh, it’s only loosely based on your exploits, but we’d still like to have your permission? And Mr. Chambeaux, of course, is the heroic main character, a brave detective who won’t let even death stop him from solving crimes. We expect it to be a best seller.”
I couldn’t imagine who would want to read such a thing. “Are you pulling my leg, Mavis?”
“Oh, my, that would be dangerous, Mr. Chambeaux. Speaking of which, how is your arm? I hear it was detached during the fight against Harvey Jekyll.”
“All pieces are back in place.” I raised and lowered my arms to demonstrate, flexing my wrist and forearm.