After Dark

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If it had not been horribly obvious that Chester Brady was already dead, Lydia Smith might have strangled him herself.

Her first assumption when she rounded the corner into the shadowy Dead City Tomb wing of Shrimpton's House of Ancient Horrors was that Chester was pulling another scam. It had to be some bizarre con tactic designed to steal her new client prospect right out from under her nose before she could get his name on a contract.

It was so typical of the little sneak. And after all she'd done for him.

She came to a halt and stared at the leg and arm hanging limply over the side of the ancient sarcophagus. Maybe it was just a weird gag this time. After all, Chester's sense of humor did lean toward childish pranks.

But there was something a little too realistic about the way he was slumped in the not-quite-human-shaped coffin.

"Maybe he just fainted or something," she said, without much hope.

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