the painting, I would never get a second chance to retrieve it.
I also knew that Alvin Ricketts had no interest whatsoever in owning this crypt.
“What kind of suggestion?” the real estate troll said. “I can make a deal. Nobody beats my deals.”
“What if I could get the legal owner of this property to sign over the deed to you, free and clear, completely aboveboard—in exchange for the painting?” (Which was rightfully Alvin’s property anyway, but I didn’t want to tangle up the conversation.)
Edgar Allan seemed interested, but narrowed his big yellow eyes. “If we handed over the painting, we’d never hear from you again.”
“I won’t take it now. You deliver the painting to my office tomorrow,” I said. “Bring Burt for protection if you like.” I nodded toward the huge troll. “I’ll see to it that the crypt owner signs all the right documents. We have an attorney and a notary right there in our offices.” I reached into my jacket and pulled out one of my business cards.
After making sure that I took one of his cards, the troll shone his little flashlight on mine. “Chambeaux and Deyer Investigations. What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Just be careful. That’s a beautiful painting—I’d hate to have it damaged.”
The troll glanced back at the large-eyed zombie puppies. “You think so? I was wondering if it might be too bit kitschy, myself.”
“I’m not an art critic. Tomorrow, in my office at noon.”
“We don’t usually go out at that hour . . . but I’ll make an exception.”
I slipped out of the crypt and back into the shadows, ducking behind a tall stone angel, then moving to a big flat grave marker. I intended to circle around as quietly as I could on my way to the wrought-iron cemetery gate.
Before I made it to the third tombstone, a furry mass of growling energy slammed into me and knocked me to the ground. The werewolf hit man grabbed me by the collar and yanked me back to my feet. He was a smelly, hairy, muscular guy, half-wolf and half-human. His claws dug into the fabric of my sport jacket.
“Careful, this is my only jacket.”
The werewolf pushed his long snout close to my face. “I caught you, Shamble.” I could see he was having trouble forming words with all those teeth in the way.
“Chambeaux,” I corrected him. “Can’t a guy take a peaceful stroll in a cemetery at night?”
He patted me down, poking with his claws. “Where’s the painting?”
“Which painting?” Not the cleverest response, but werewolves aren’t the cleverest of creatures, especially the full-time lycanthropes.
“You know which painting. I’ve been watching you.”
“I know you were hired by the Ricketts heirs,” I admitted, “and I’m sure your employers think they’re very important, but I have plenty of other cases. As a private detective who specializes in unnatural clientele, believe me, I’ve got more than enough reasons to come to a cemetery.”
Growling, the werewolf searched me again, though I don’t know where he suspected I might hide a large rolled-up painting. My chest pocket?
I heard heavy footfalls and looked up to see the scaly form of Burt the troll. “There a problem here?” Burt was sufficiently intimidating that even the werewolf didn’t want to mess with him.
I pulled myself away from the claws and straightened my jacket in an attempt to regain some dignity. “I was just leaving,” I said, and looked pointedly at the werewolf.
“I was escorting him out,” the hairy guy growled. “Name’s Larry.”
Burt loomed there, watching as the two of us left the cemetery.
After we both passed through the gate, I sized up the werewolf. Since Chambeaux & Deyer had accepted the Alvin Ricketts case only a month and a half before my murder, maybe it was connected to my own case somehow. “Say, Larry, you wouldn’t happen to be the guy who shot me, would you?” No harm in asking.
“Yeah, I heard about that.” The hairy hit man growled deep in his throat. “Do I look like the kind of guy who sneaks up behind someone in a dark alley and shoots him in the back of the head?”
“That wouldn’t be my guess.”
“Have you ever seen a werewolf victim? Look at you, Shamble. You could pass for human, if somebody doesn’t look too close.” He flexed his claws. “If I killed you, you’d have been a pile of shredded meat.”
“I’ll count my blessings, then,” I said. “See you around.” I touched a finger to the brim of my fedora in a brief salute and headed