Undeath and Taxes (15 page)

2.

“Good evening, Mr. Price.” I walked briskly through the door and took the large man’s hand in a careful handshake. Despite him being several inches taller and wider than me, I had to be careful not to injure him as our hands interlocked. That would surely torpedo my chances at the account, as well as leave me with a fair amount of explaining to do.

“Ah, Fredrick Fletcher. Nice to finally meet you in person.” Mr. Price gave my arm a hearty pumping, which I endured with a smile. My prospective employer wore one as well, a wide grin that peered through his bushy beard. He was a large man, though he didn’t hold a candle to people like Bubba or Richard. Still, he possessed broad shoulders and thick arms. They’d been slimmed by age, the mass moving southward to his stomach, but he’d still managed to maintain an athletic shape despite the advancing years. I’d have said I wanted to look as good as he when I reached that age; however, I already knew perfectly well what I would look like in another thirty years. Vampires didn’t age, after all.

“The pleasure is all mine.” Our hands released, and I turned to face the other guests in the room. Asha looked much as I’d remembered her: tall, lean, and with skin the color of slightly burned caramel. She was quite pretty, though in that regard, I found her a bit diminished. Asha was too put together, and while I’d once enjoyed such a feature, my tastes had turned to the type of woman who kept a gun in her boot and a knife by the bed. Troy was so similar to when I’d last seen him that it was eerie; I suspected he was even wearing the same tie. There was no true warmth in the bleached-white smile resting beneath his dark eyes and wavy blond hair; it was simply an accoutrement he wore, no different than cufflinks, or a tie-pin.

“A pleasure to see you both again.” I reached into the breast pocket of my shirt and produced a small, faux-silver case, out of which I plucked a pair of business cards. I handed one to each of my former coworkers, curious to see if they’d even remember our association. In life, I’d been substantially heavier, as well as painfully shy. I wouldn’t begrudge them at all if my name rang no bells. In fact, in a situation like this, I’d rather prefer it.

“‘Fletcher Accounting Services. Our numbers never miss their mark.’” Troy read the card out loud, turning it over a few times, no doubt inspecting the quality of the stock and print. “President: Fredrick Frankford Fletcher.” He looked up, taking note of my face again. “I know who you are.”

“Oh?” My nerves tensed, but I refused to let my discomfort show on my face.

“Yeah, you’re the guy who stole the Engleman account from us a few weeks back. How did you manage to lure him away, anyhow? He’d been with us for twenty years.” Troy managed to keep his plastic smile plastered on as he spoke, making the whole discussion seem like lighthearted trash-talk. The anger in his eyes, however, he was less successful in masking.

“I simply offered Mr. Engleman a level of service that your company was unable to match. If you watch closely, I believe you’ll see me do the same for Mr. Price tonight.” The truth of the matter was that Mr. Engleman was a mage who needed an accountant capable of deducting his ritual components on his taxes, but I saw no reason not to shake Troy’s confidence a touch before the meeting started.

“All right boys, put them away, there’s a lady present,” Asha said. She popped open her purse—a small black clutch—and dropped my business card into it before turning to me with an expression of familiarity. I should have known she’d remember me; the woman’s attention to detail and level of recall was legendary. “Besides, you already know Fred. He worked at Torvald & Torvald until about two years ago.” She greeted me with an actual warm expression. “Tell me, Fred, how have you been? You look great.”

“Proper diet and rigorous exercise,” I said. “I’ve been doing quite well. Striking out on my own has been a wonderful adventure. How are things at the old company?”

“Oh, you know, there’s ups and—”

“Wait.” Troy snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “You’re
that
Fred? Big guy, really quiet, ate lunch by himself at his desk?”

“Some of us were too busy to go off for hours in the middle of the day.” Okay, I’ll admit it: I was being petty, but I really didn’t enjoy being reminded of my old life. Especially not from someone who’d only made it less enjoyable.

“Nothing wrong with a man who works hard,” Mr. Price added. He turned over his sizable hand to check his watch. “Looks like our last guest is running low on time. I have no tolerance for those who lack punctuality. Mark that well, all of you. If he doesn’t make it by eight, it will just be the two of you in the running.”

“All the easier to narrow down your selection, then,” Troy said.

Unbeknownst to the others, I heard the soft jingle of the door at the front, as well as frantic footsteps scurrying across the floor. Despite the fact that this newcomer would represent competition, I still found myself hoping they made it. Even aside from enjoying anything that disappointed Troy, I disliked the idea of winning things by default. This was my only battleground, and I wanted to prove I was truly the best for the job.

“I’m sure our final guest is on their way right now. I have no doubt at all that they’ll make it.”

Troy opened his mouth, no doubt to say something spurious and distasteful, but before he had the opportunity, our final dinner guest dashed through the door. He was a middle-aged man in a semi-rumpled suit, sweat dripping off his bald head and onto the carpet. We all looked at him in shock, this was not at all appropriate attire for such a meeting, but as he panted heavily, it became clear he needed to catch his breath before an explanation could be offered.

“Car . . . broke down . . .” he said at last, pulling himself to a standing position and wiping his forehead with an already damp sleeve. “About two miles back . . . ran all the way here . . .”

“Now
that
is the type of dedication I like to see,” Mr. Price announced, walking over and gripping the man’s sweaty hand. “Cliff Puckett, welcome to the final interview.”

“Thank you . . . sir.” Cliff managed to hold on through Price’s rigorous handshake, which was no small accomplishment given their size difference and Cliff’s clearly weary status. Once he was finally released, he began making the rounds to introduce himself. I was marginally closer, so that made me the first stop on his tour.

“Cliff Puckett, Puckett Account Management.” He handed me one of his cards, and I gave him one of mine, the accounting version of the handshake. “Fredrick Fletcher, Fletcher Accounting Services.”

Cliff made his way over to Asha and Troy, but I allowed my attention in their conversation to lapse as I took notice of the employees entering the room. They were male, all tall and dressed in crisp black tuxedos. As they walked, they rolled carts of silverware, dishes, and glasses, which they began to set atop the starched white linen adorning the spacious table. In truth, it was largely unremarkable, but the poise and coordination with which they moved drew me in. It was imperfect enough to be human, yet graceful enough to make me wonder.

“Spectacular, aren’t they?” Mr. Price said from behind me. “Everything here is incredible. The food, the service, the decor, it’s one of the best kept secrets in Winslow. At least . . . for now.”

“Dare I wonder what that means?”

“In due time, Mr. Fletcher. We’re going to talk about business over dinner, and not a moment before.” Mr. Price hesitated for a moment, then added, “But since I brought it up, I suppose I can give you a hint. Part of the reason we’re taking on new account services is that our firm is looking to do some serious expansion of Winslow as a whole, really putting our town on the map. That’s all you get until the appetizers arrive.”

Mr. Price walked away from me, clapping his hands together to get the others’ attention and directing them to the dinner table. I watched him go, wondering exactly what he had in store. Winslow was already a vibrant town with ample corporations headquartered there. Heck, it was big enough to have the King of the West living amidst its citizens, though that was likely due to Richard and Sally more than his own preference. I rather liked my city; I’d chosen to move there, after all.

As I headed to the dinner table, it was with a new worry gnawing at my stomach. Now I had to wonder not only if I could even get the account, but if it was something I wanted in the first place.

3.

Though my digestive system treats all food and drink that isn’t blood the same way a human’s treats gum or the wood pulp additive found in many grains, I was still perfectly capable of enjoying the flavors in well-prepared cuisine. By the third course, it was clear that the chef at Charlotte Manor intended to delight my still active taste buds through every step of the meal. The bisque was sublime, the stuffed quail moist yet flavorful, and the fish seared perfectly.

Personally, I was content to enjoy the artfully prepared meal and let Mr. Price drone on about his latest fishing trip with the other partners (a tale which, surprisingly, involved no accounts of giant catches, as he admitted to hooking nothing the entire outing). The others, particularly Troy, were a bit more eager to see the show get on the road. I was surprised at his presumptiveness, though I supposed the right employers could see his attempts to steer things in a business direction as aggressiveness. As a salesman and representative, it was surely a desirable trait, but I personally believed accountants best served our craft by being conscientious and deliberate.

“—and that’s just one of the exclusive services you’ll find at Torvald & Torvald.” Troy slid his half-eaten fish plate onto the cart as the waiter walked by. The rest of us had cleaned the moderate portions without hesitation, but he’d been too busy talking to pay it proper attention.

“I’m sure Mr. Price is already aware,” Asha said. She’d been doing her best to keep him reined in; no doubt that was part of the very reason they were assigned to work as a team. Of course, having both a lawyer and an accountant to speak to all sides of the business was also a strong move, as was using an aesthetically pleasing male and female. No matter the client or situation, they had the deck stacked in their favor.

“It’s fine, I was planning to hit the main topic over the steak course anyway.” Mr. Price added his own plate to the cart, and the waiter moved soundlessly into the kitchen. Something about him—about all of the staff—was still off, but for the life of me, I couldn’t place what it was. To be fair, I wasn’t trying terribly hard. Tonight was not about parahuman weirdness; it was about business, pure and simple.

“Let’s start with why I’m looking to expand our current accounting partners. I already gave Mr. Fletcher a bit of a hint, but I think we’ve reached the point where I can lay things on the table.” As Mr. Price paused to drink his wine, Troy shot me a glare of unmasked anger and Asha eyed me with suspicion. Even Cliff seemed to be giving me a sideways glance, as though I’d been working with a secret leg-up instead of some cryptic clue.

“Our investment company has decided it’s time to start rebranding Winslow, Colorado. Time to take it into the new century. Sure, our downtown is nice, and we’ve got more than a few companies with major offices here, but that’s small potatoes. I’m talking about busting through the burbs, building a true metropolis to rival New York and LA.”

“You think we can do that in Winslow?” Cliff asked. I was glad he’d voiced the skepticism that I also felt, but was too reticent to speak out loud.

“Not easily, no,” Mr. Price said. “It’s going to take a lot of money, a bit of time, and a fair amount of . . . let’s call it ‘economic landscaping’ for now. Winslow has a good climate, and a nice proximity to lots of major attractions; our biggest weakness is how stuck in the past we are. For example, this whole neighborhood used to belong to a small farming community. Now, the only thing that matters for miles in any direction is this bed and breakfast. That’s loads of property waiting to be bought up and turned into something worthwhile.”

“And what would you propose doing with it, sir?” Had Troy been wearing a checkered sports coat and tried to sell me a “mint” Cadillac off the lot, he couldn’t have come off as more slimy. Sadly, Mr. Price either didn’t share my assessment or didn’t care, as he went right on talking.

“First and foremost, we cut the history out of this town: gut the good stuff and repackage it into a modern brand. No one cares about old bed and breakfasts anymore, or about the historical windmills to the south, or our old churches scattered through downtown. We’re not New Orleans; we don’t have enough salacious history to turn it into a marketable aspect. Best to torch it all and turn ourselves into a sleek, modern destination. Take this place for example; there’s a reason I brought you here.”

Mr. Price raised his hands, nearly clipping one of the waiters who were setting down fresh steak knives in preparation for the next course. They moved so silently, it was hard to blame him; even I had scarcely noticed their return to the room. Again, something in the depths of my mind tried to rise to the surface, but I was too busy listening to Mr. Price’s plan to pay it any heed.

“This whole place is fantastic; the service is perfect, the food is amazing, and whoever runs it gets every detail right. Been coming here off and on for years; it’s one of the best kept secrets in Winslow. Why? Because there’s no reason anyone else would come here, not unless they were dragged by an ex-wife for a ‘romantic’ weekend like I was. Yet, the whole thing is wonderful. If it was a little more updated and centrally located, it could be a top-tier hotel. In fact, I love this place so much that I did a little digging into who owns it.”

One of the waiters fumbled slightly, nearly dropping a knife in Asha’s lap. Before she even had time to gasp, the young man’s hand snapped out and grabbed the blade, setting it gently down on the place setting in front of her. I braced myself, waiting for the scent of blood to invade my nostrils and try to steal my attention, but it never came. Somehow, that waiter had grabbed a sharp knife in mid-air and managed to avoid even a scratch. The nagging suspicion in the back of my head suddenly became much more difficult to ignore.

“Turns out, it’s owned by some fourth cousin of the original owner’s grandson. No luck running him down yet, but someone keeps mailing in taxes on the place every year. Just an envelope full of cash; shows up at the tax office at the same time annually. I’ve tried talking to the staff, but none of them are keen on telling me about the owner or who runs the place. I’ve got a few of our people working on sussing it out, though. Once I find the owner, I’ll make him a great offer and turn this place into a prime example of what we plan to do.”

The waiters were coming out of the kitchen again, this time wheeling a cart with what appeared to be delectable pieces of tenderloin on each plate. Unlike before, however, they seemed less graceful and removed. Now, they were all watching Mr. Price from the corner of their eyes, clearly hanging on every word he had to say. At the thought of them listening, the spark of insight that had been clamoring about the back of my brain finally leapt to the forefront, making me realize what my subconscious had noticed since I first saw them.

None of the waiters, not a single one, had a heartbeat. Though I dislike admitting it, I am usually keenly aware of the sound of blood pumping through a living person’s veins, something I’ve used selective attention to willfully tune out. Once I was listening, it was, unfortunately, unmistakable. Whoever these men were, they certainly weren’t alive.

“When we own the place, we take all the stuff that makes it special: the cook, the staff, the general manager, everybody who turns this musty old building into a nice place to stay. Then we set them up with a proper establishment downtown, tear this place to the ground, and buy up the surrounding property to use for one of the expansion projects. Nothing is wasted, and we make our town just a little bit more exceptional.”

“Mr. Price, I dearly wish you hadn’t just said that.” The voice came from one of the waiters, speaking as he stepped around to the end of the table opposite Mr. Price. Despite the fact that it was the first words any of them had uttered, there was something about his voice that struck me as just a touch familiar. “I’ve enjoyed having you here over the years, and greatly appreciated the dinner parties you threw. It livened things up.”

“Don’t worry, son. Like I said, the staff makes this place incredible. You’ll all be moving on to better facilities with a nice bump in pay.”

“Unfortunately, that proposal is unacceptable.” As he spoke, the other waiters kept moving, setting the food down in front of us. “I cannot allow anyone to take ownership of this house, nor will I permit anything to happen to it. This means, much as it saddens me, that your plans must die here, tonight.”

“Look, kid, I get that you’re upset—” Mr. Price’s words cut off as another waiter grabbed his chair and thrust it forward, jamming the edge of the table into his diaphragm.

“I am not a kid. In truth, I’ve been alive far longer than any of you, and I have no desire to meet my end quite yet. You have my dearest apologies, Mr. Price, but I’ve gotten to know you too well after all your years visiting here. You’re a stubborn man, so no amount of things I could do to you or promises I might extract would stop you from doing whatever you wanted once you were outside these walls.”

“What are you saying?” I asked.

The doors to the dining room slammed themselves shut just as the lights flickered out, leaving us trapped in darkness.

“I am saying that Theodore Price is never leaving this house.”