the firefighters had trouble finding them, and by the time they engaged the blaze, the Shakespearean stage was unsalvageable.
Some sluggish zombies shambled into the cemetery, attracted to the bright light and commotion like moths to a flame, but the blaze was extinguished by the time they arrived, so the crowds began to disperse.
“Shakespeare’s original Globe Theatre burned down,” Robin pointed out. “I can see the irony.”
“It’s not irony—it’s arson,” I said, unable to swallow any other explanation. I suspected Senator Balfour’s minions were both upset and violent enough to light a match or two, just to make a point.
Next morning, Sheyenne went to make a fresh pot of coffee in the office, even though I couldn’t taste the difference between the new gourmet stuff and the tarry residue at the bottom of yesterday’s pot. Nevertheless, Sheyenne claimed that brewing coffee made our office smell fresh and homey. I suspected that she did certain things just to remind herself of what she’d once had in life, clinging to a few routine details—making coffee, going out to lunch, taking a walk in the fresh rain. I did the same thing; that was half the reason why I spent so much time at the Goblin Tavern. Since death had left us behind, we clung to the few anchors we had.
Sheyenne was rinsing the pot in our little kitchenette when a young man entered the office. He wore a slightly scruffy camel-colored suit and had rakishly tousled blond hair, a handsome face, and a disarming smile: good-looking in a way that made him seem a natural-born salesman, or a con man. If he was a client, we would help him in any way we could. If he was a salesman, I doubted we were buying.
Sheyenne flitted back out to welcome the visitor, and I heard the coffeepot crash to the floor, spilling water everywhere. The young man grinned at her. “Sorry I missed your funeral, sis.”
“Travis!” There was definite shock and alarm in Sheyenne’s voice; I couldn’t tell whether she was delightfully surprised or angry. She had never mentioned a brother before, but from the similarity in features, it was obvious that they were siblings.
Robin came out of her office, shocked to see the broken coffee urn and the mess on the floor. “I’m Travis.” The young man extended a hand to Robin while he looked at me with a hint of intimidation, sizing me up. “Travis Carey.”
I had met Sheyenne at the Basilisk nightclub, where she was a singer, and I thought of her by her stage name, although I knew her real name was Anne. “Shy Anne.” I sometimes call her Spooky, because that was the first song I ever heard her sing, but I never knew her last name, never asked. Even while she was lying in a hospital bed, in the last throes of the toadstool poison that had killed her, Sheyenne told me she didn’t have any family, no living relatives, no one I should contact.
Something fishy was going on here.
I stepped closer to Travis and did my best to loom, just in case she needed backup. “I’m Dan Chambeaux, Sheyenne’s employer. . . and very close friend.”
Sheyenne hovered there, wrestling with her reaction. I watched a catalog of emotions skim across her face. I wanted to hold her—she needed some support right now—but we didn’t have a full-body glove close at hand.
Sheyenne had already told us how she had lost her parents: They were killed by a businessman talking on his car phone—and back then I mean an actual car phone installed in his Mercedes with a handset and stretchy cord pulled out. He’d been having an argument about a Chinese to-go order, not watching where he was driving, and the crash had killed Sheyenne’s parents on impact.
She’d been just a teenager, forced to take care of herself. She went through a succession of jobs, holding on by her fingernails, learning whatever she could, and never giving up on the chance to make something of herself. I’d always admired her spunk and determination.
She’d worked in the business world before deciding to change careers and go to med school. Money was tight. While working at a nightclub for monsters, she barely scraped by in a tiny apartment in the Quarter, late on the rent, unable to pay her phone bill. All of this she had shared with us.
But she had never mentioned Travis.
“You must have been . . . out of the picture?” I prompted, raising my eyebrows.
“My sister