Death Warmed Over - By Kevin J. Anderson Page 0,59
set the letter on her desk and flattened the crinkles. “No, I’ll call them. I think it might be time to try an innovative approach—and I’ve got an idea.”
“All right, but if Mavis and Alma need a shoulder to cry on”—I thought of the large sow—“or to nuzzle against, I’ll do my part.”
While Robin talked with the Wannovich sisters on the phone, I decided to check on Mrs. Saldana down at the mission, as well as Sheldon Fennerman, to let them both know about the restraining order against Straight Edge. I grabbed my hat, took my phone and my gun, told Sheyenne where I was going, and headed out.
At the halfway-repaired Hope & Salvation Mission, patrons had returned to take advantage of Mrs. Saldana’s generosity. She made soup and cookies and passed out blood bags donated to the mission by the blood bank (type B positive packs that were near their expiration date; vampires considered it the least flavorful blood type, but Mrs. Saldana liked to reinforce the subliminal message of “be positive”).
Inside the mission, Jerry the zombie was practicing at the piano but not doing very well. A mangy-looking werewolf snoozed on one of the folding chairs. Two bald vampires looked with disdain at the selection of blood bags, obviously not tempted; I wondered if these two had been victims of the garlic-contaminated JLPN shampoo.
A parked truck sat in front of the mission, with large panels that held sheets of window glass. Black Glass, Inc. was stenciled on the passenger door. Out front, Mrs. Saldana spoke with an exceedingly dapper zombie dressed in a black frock coat, a gray checkered vest, and black silk top hat. His eyes were sunk deep in their sockets; long gray hair extended below the brim of the top hat. He looked like the Crypt Keeper in an old horror television show that was experiencing a resurgence in popularity now that it had been repackaged as a slice-of-life comedy. Rather than the usual smell of death one would expect from a zombie in his state of decay, a haze of pungent cologne hung around him. By now, I recognized the distinctive scent of Zom-Be-Fresh.
I walked up to them. “I just came to make sure you’re all right, Mrs. Saldana. No further harassment?”
The old woman brightened. “None whatsoever, Mr. Chambeaux. We’re getting back on our feet now, and I want to thank you for giving me this gentleman’s contact information. He’s doing a fine job.”
The dapper zombie extended his hand. “Franklin Galworthy, owner of Black Glass. I appreciate you recommending us, sir. We’re just a start-up company and can use the customers.”
“Pleased to meet you.” The cologne smell was so strong my eyes began to water. “How’s business?”
Galworthy took off his top hat and wiped an emaciated hand across his forehead. “Quite busy. The brute that did this”—he gestured to where he had framed the smashed windows with new two-by-fours—“has caused a lot of damage across the Quarter. Smashed glass everywhere.” His grin showed off an array of teeth that would have startled even Mr. Sardonicus. “And all those places need replacement windows. At the moment, I’ve got more work than I can handle.”
“I hope you catch that horribly destructive creature,” Mrs. Saldana said, fluttering her hand in front of her face. “You’re the detective, Mr. Chambeaux. Any leads?”
“Not yet—Officer McGoohan is on it. If I learn anything, I’ll let him know.”
“Give me two days and I’ll have the mission fixed up, good as new,” said Galworthy. “And if the brute attacks again, we’ll fix it again! That’s the best way to defeat vandals, I say—take away their fun.”
With a flourish like a circus showman, he twirled his top hat, plopped it back on the straggly gray strands covering his cranium, and returned to measuring the window before he cut the glass.
I informed Mrs. Saldana that, thanks to the restraining order, she could have the Straight Edgers thrown in jail for contempt if they bothered her again. The old woman blessed me and gave me a sweet grandmotherly pat on my shoulder.
My cell phone rang. It was Sheyenne. “Beaux, you better head over to Howard Phillips Publishing—something’s brewing. Robin wants you there to see what she’s got up her sleeve.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “I take it the witches weren’t satisfied with the publisher’s response?”
“Robin has a plan, whatever that means.”
“Now I’m curious. Give me the address.”
Leaving the mission, I tried to hail a taxi and, as is typical when you’re in a