"That's typical?" asked John.
"You haven't met my neighbor," said Mr. Crow.
"Murdered," I said with a grimace. "Not peacefully in your sleep, then?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Pity," I said, "I was hoping this would be easy."
"How would that make it easy?" asked Mr. Crow.
"If you've been murdered we'll have to involve the police," said John. "They bring too much paperwork, and they always want to look in the basement."
"What's in the basement?" asked Mr. Crow.
"Nothing of import," I said, which wasn't even a lie. The vampires in our basement were the least important people I've ever met. I looked at Mr. Crow closely. "Murdered or not, however, I recommend against involving the police—they usually prefer to take reports about murder victims rather than from them."
"It's the fault of the forms, really," said John. "They've got separate spaces to fill out for victim and witness, so if you try to combine them there's nowhere to write it down."
"I'm afraid I don't follow," said Mr. Crow.
We needed this man's money, so I bit my tongue and continued as civilly as I could. "Perhaps your mind is hazy," I suggested, "from being so recently murdered?"
"This neighbor," said John, "this Mr. . . .?"
"Tolliver," said Crow.
"Mr. Tolliver," said John. "He . . . stabbed you, perhaps? Somewhere inconspicuous? Your armpit?"
Crow looked affronted. "Why would Mr. Tolliver stab me in my armpit?"
"Are you asking why he would stab you?" asked John, "or why he would choose to do it in your armpit?"
"Why would he choose to do anything in my armpit?" demanded Crow. "Do you think I go around showing my armpit to the whole neighborhood?"
"I'm not one to question the affairs of my elders," said John, "least of all our dear departed dead."
"Your armpit is the least important part of the question," I said. "We are primarily concerned with. . . well, that's not quite true. That question was primarily concerned with how someone might kill you in a way that leaves no obvious mark. I am primarily concerned with how someone might kill you in a way that leaves no obvious death."
"I'm undead," said Mr. Crow.
"And there it is." I sighed, settling back into my chair. "I had very much hoped to make it through the day without any mention of the undead."
"Only the day?" asked Crow.
"We have vampires in the basement," said John. "The subject's not as easy to avoid as one might hope."
"Vampires?" asked Crow, standing abruptly. His tone, rather than the shock I was accustomed to, was dripping with disgust. "I had been told this was a reputable establishment, but if that is the kind of the company you keep I shall take my business elsewhere—"
"Wait!" I said, standing up quickly. Faced with the possibility that he might walk away I was forced to concede that in doing so he would take his money with him, and this was not a possibility I wished to entertain. "I assure you, sir, your contempt for vampires does more to endear you to me than anything that has passed between us thus far. We keep them less as company than as a matter of public safety: as long as they are downstairs with the rabbits, they're not outside with the defenseless maidens."
"You shouldn't be harboring the vampires," said Mr. Crow, "you should be defending the maidens!"
"I think you underestimate the level of defenselessness these vampires require," I said. "Have you ever met one?"
"Most certainly not," said Mr. Crow, "and I sincerely hope never to do so."
"Then I shall keep the door locked," I said.
The door beside me opened.
"Not that one, " I said quickly. “The one to the basement."
"Mr. Beard," said Mr. Spilsbury, peering in from the hall. "I wonder if you—"
I leaned to the side and closed the door, smiling at Mr. Crow as I did. "That man, for example, is not a vampire at all. Now. Obviously you are a man of unorthodox nature, more acquainted than most with the darker creatures in the corners of the world. I assure you that our mortuary, vampires notwithstanding, is better equipped to deal with these atypical realities than any other business you are likely to patronize. Let us start with the seemingly simple question of whether or not you intend to be buried?"
"And in what kind of coffin?" asked John. "We have oak, cherrywood—very good for keeping out moths—"
"The type of wood," I said," is somewhat less pressing of a concern than, if I may put this as delicately as possible, the fact that you are still walking and talking and, I assume, wish to continue doing so. Burial, while it does bring an enviable solitude, is rather restrictive when it comes to such activities as not being buried anymore. If you wish to arrange a funeral that appears to bury you but doesn't, or that actually buries you and then digs you up again after nightfall, I suspect you'll find very few other mortuaries capable of meeting such a request. We employ both a grave digger and a grave robber, not necessarily for this exact situation, but they will certainly come in handy."
Let us note, at this point, that I did not in any way believe that Mr. Crow was dead, nor that his neighbor had killed him; my mind was awash with the complications that could arise if we were to actually go through with his funeral and/or burial. Would he want a viewing? Could he hold still that long, or would he prefer to walk among the guests shaking hands? Would he, in fact, insist on a burial, and was I prepared to bury a man alive? If we were caught by the police, would 'but he told us he was dead' be sufficient excuse to get us exonerated?
Mr. Crow studied us for a moment, his eyes flicking back and forth between me, John, and the door, until at last he sighed and sat down again. "I suppose you're right. I shall simply have
