Death Warmed Over - By Kevin J. Anderson Page 0,81

and the goo specimen from the disintegrating puddle of Franklin Galworthy in front of the mission. After I told her what had happened to the dapper zombie, she looked appalled. “I need you to contact your friend at the chem lab. There’s got to be some clue here as to what made Mr. Galworthy dissolve.”

Sheyenne took the samples, regarded the Fresh Loam sachet. “I’ll call in a few favors again, but I’ll bet it comes up negative.”

The tone of background conversation inside the lounge changed as Ivory emerged from backstage. The big vamp came into the bar area, swaying in an exaggerated half-corkscrew walk to accentuate her assets. Each time she turned, her breasts swayed with the movement about a half turn out of sync, trying to catch up. Her smile was very wide to emphasize her full set of teeth and fangs, which sparkled as if she had recently endured a very expensive tooth-whitening process.

Sheyenne hissed under her breath, ready to claw the diva’s eyes out. “That bitch poisoned me. I just know it.”

“Play it cool for now,” I said. “Can’t prove it—yet.”

Ivory came forward, smiling even wider when she recognized Sheyenne. “Hoping to steal the show again, sugar? Take my place?” The vamp’s friendly tone sounded as cuddly as an iron maiden. “Good luck if you want to try.”

Sheyenne had her spectral hackles up. “I was good at singing, but I didn’t need it—I would have moved on soon enough. I have a lot of talents. You never had anything to worry about.”

Ivory gave a throaty laugh. “I was never worried about a scrawny little waif like you, sugar. With that warbly voice?”

“Then you didn’t need to kill me,” Sheyenne said point-blank.

Now the buxom vampire laughed even louder. “You think I killed you? Why would I bother? The competition helps me keep my edge. I always have the whole audience in the palm of my hand.”

Now the vamp turned to me, working the full glamour of her personality. “I’m so glad you’re here to listen tonight, Dan.” Ivory leaned forward to make sure I got a good view of her cleavage; the chasm was so enormous it could have been seen from two blocks away. “I’ll do a special number for you, make you forget all about that willowy little ghost. It’s not as if you can do anything with her now.”

Sheyenne lifted her glass of bourbon and water and threw it directly in Ivory’s face. The big vamp spluttered. “You little bitch!” Ivory extended her clawlike nails, thrust out her fangs, and the audience gasped in shock. Instinctively, I lurched to my feet to put myself between the two, although a vampire couldn’t touch a ghost anyway.

Just then I heard an edgy, cackling laugh. “I had no idea this was audience participation night, sweethearts.” Miranda Jekyll had arrived and instantly became the center of attention. Ivory stormed off to regain her dignity and clean up.

“Sorry about the drama, Mrs. Jekyll.” I gestured Miranda to the empty chair. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

In a fluid movement, she slithered into the offered seat. “I eagerly await your report, Mr. Chambeaux, but first things first. Isn’t somebody going to buy me a drink?” Though Fletcher was dismayed to watch the retreating diva, he hurried over to our table. Miranda looked up at him. “Ah, there you are at last. I’ll have a gin martini, please, three olives, very large, very dry, and very dirty.”

The conversation in the nightclub grudgingly returned to normal. I noticed that the three zombie cougars—Victoria, Sharon, and Cindy—had also ensconced (or entombed) themselves at the bar, gaunt and skeletal, fully painted. Compared to those three, Miranda Jekyll looked ravishing. The trio of cadaverous women ordered colorful fruity concoctions and sat together, waiting for someone to hit on them.

Before long, Brondon Morris did. He entered Basilisk wearing a different plaid suit this time—I imagined he must have a whole closet full of them—and chatted up the three undead women, paid for their round of drinks.

When Miranda followed my gaze, she emitted a low growl from her throat. Jealous? Another piece clicked into place. She’d been quite open about the fact that she had her own affairs. Was she cheating on Harvey Jekyll with that man?

“Brondon Morris is a loathsome human being,” she said as if reading my mind, not tearing her eyes from him. “A little turd in a bad suit.”

All right, probably not an affair, then.

“Brondon isn’t my favorite person, either,” I said. “I have my