Sookie Stackhouse 8-copy Boxed Set (268 page)

He looked at me suspiciously. His little eyes in his mashed-in face scanned me as if he suspected he’d find a bloody cleaver hanging from my belt. “Sure, Sookie,” he said after a long moment. “You got any of these missing people stowed away at your house?”

I beamed at him, anxiety transforming my smile into the bright grin of someone who wasn’t all there mentally. “No, Bud, I just want to find out what’s going on in the world. I’m behind on the news.”

Bud said, “I’ll leave it on the table,” and he began reading again. I think he would have pinned Jimmy Hoffa on me if he could have figured a way to make it stick. Not that he necessarily thought I was a murderer, but he thought I was fishy and maybe involved in things that he didn’t want happening in his parish. Bud Dearborn and Alcee Beck had that conviction in common, especially since the death of the man in the library. Luckily for me, the man had turned out to have a record as long as my arm; and not only a record, but one for violent crimes. Though Alcee knew I’d acted in self-defense, he’d never trust me . . . and neither would Bud Dearborn.

When Bud had finished his beer and his onion rings and departed to rain terror on the evildoers of Renard Parish, I took his paper over to the bar and read the story with Sam looking over my shoulder. I had deliberately stayed away from the news after the bloodbath at the empty office park. I’d been sure the Were community couldn’t cover up something so big; all they could do was muddy the trail the police would surely be following. That proved to be the case.

I considered it. I imagined the phone call. “All of these people died as a result of the werewolf war,” I would say. “They were all Weres, and a displaced and hungry pack from south Louisiana decided the dissension in the ranks in Shreveport created an opening for them.”

I didn’t think I’d get much of a hearing.

“So they haven’t found the site yet,” Sam said very quietly.

“I guess that really was a good place for the meeting.”

“Sooner or later, though . . .”

“Yeah. I wonder what’s left?”

“Alcide’s crew’s had plenty of time now,” Sam said. “So, not much. They probably burned the bodies somewhere out in the sticks. Or buried them on someone’s land.”

I shuddered. Thank God I hadn’t had to be part of that; and at least I really
didn’t
know where the bodies were buried. After checking my tables and serving some more drinks, I went back to the paper and flipped it open to the obituaries. Reading down the column headed “State Deaths,” I got an awful shock.

I’d never seen an obituary for a vampire. This one was a complete fabrication. Sophie-Anne had not had Sino-AIDS, the only disease that could cross from humans to vampires. Sophie-Anne had probably had an acute attack of Mr. Stake. Sino-AIDS was dreaded among vampires, of course, despite the fact that it was hard to communicate. At least it provided a palatable explanation for the human business community as to why Sophie-Anne’s holdings were being managed by another vampire, and it was an explanation that no one would question too closely, especially since there was no body to refute the claim. To get it in today’s paper, someone must have called it in directly after she’d been killed, perhaps even before she was dead. Ugh. I shivered.

I wondered what had really happened to Sigebert, Sophie-Anne’s devoted bodyguard. Victor had implied Sigebert had perished along with the queen, but he hadn’t definitely said so. I couldn’t believe the bodyguard could still be alive. He would never have let anyone get close enough to kill Sophie-Anne. Sigebert had been at her side for so many years, hundreds upon hundreds, that I didn’t think he could have survived her loss.

I left the newspaper open to the obituaries and placed it on Sam’s desk, figuring the bar was too busy a place to talk about it even if we had the time. We’d had an influx of customers. I was running my feet off serving them and pocketing some good tips, too. But after the week I’d had, it was not only hard to feel normally happy about the money, it was also impossible to feel normally cheerful about being at work. I just did my best to smile and respond when I was spoken to.

By the time I got off work, I didn’t want to talk to anyone about anything.

But of course, I didn’t get my druthers.

There were two women waiting in the front yard at my house, and they both radiated anger. One, I already knew: Frannie Quinn. The woman with her had to be Quinn’s mother. In the harsh glare of the security light I had a good look at the woman whose life had been such a disaster. I realized no one had ever told me her name. She was still pretty, but in a Goth sort of way that wasn’t kind to her age. She was in her forties; her face was gaunt, her eyes shadowed. She had dark hair with more than a touch of gray, and she was very tall and thin. Frannie was wearing a tank top that showed her bra, and tight jeans, and boots. Her mother was wearing pretty much the same outfit but in different colors. I guessed Frannie had charge of dressing her mother.

I parked beside them, because I had no intention of inviting them in. I got out of my car reluctantly.

“You bitch,” Frannie said passionately. Her young face was rigid with anger. “How could you do that to my brother? He did so much for you!”

That was one way to look at it. “Frannie,” I said, keeping my voice as calm and level as I could, “what happens between Quinn and me is really not any of your business.”

The front door opened, and Amelia stepped out on the porch. “Sookie, you need me?” she asked, and I smelled magic around her.

“I’m coming in, in just a second,” I said clearly, but didn’t tell her to go back inside. Mrs. Quinn was a pureblood weretiger, and Frannie was half; they were both stronger than me.

Mrs. Quinn stepped forward and looked at me quizzically. “You’re the one John loved,” she said. “You’re the one who broke up with him.”

“Yes, ma’am. It just wasn’t going to work out.”

“They say I have to go back to that place in the desert,” she said. “Where they store all the crazy Weres.”

No shit. “Oh, do they?” I said, to make it clear I had nothing to do with it.

“Yes,” she said, and lapsed into silence, which was kind of a big relief.

Frannie, however, had not done with me. “I loaned you my car,” she said. “I came to warn you.”

“And I thank you,” I said. My heart sank. I couldn’t think of any magic words to lessen the pain in the air. “Believe me, I wish things had worked out different.” Lame but true.

“What’s wrong with my brother?” Frannie asked. “He’s handsome; he loves you; he’s got money.
He’s a great guy.
What’s wrong with you that you don’t want him?”

The bald answer—that I really admired Quinn but didn’t want to play second fiddle to his family’s needs—was simply unspeakable for two reasons: it was unnecessarily hurtful, and I might be seriously injured as a result. Mrs. Quinn might not be compos mentis, but she was listening with growing agitation. If she changed to her tiger form, I had no idea what would happen. She might run off into the woods, or she might attack. All this zoomed through my mind in little pictures. I had to say something.

“Frannie,” I said very slowly and deliberately because I had no idea what I was going to follow that up with. “There’s nothing wrong with your brother at all. I think he’s the greatest. But we just have too many strikes against us as a couple. I want him to have the best chance at making a match with some lucky, lucky woman. So I cut him loose. Believe me, I’m hurting, too.” This was mostly true, which helped. But I hoped Amelia had her fingertips primed to deliver some good magic. And I hoped she got the spell right. Just in case, I began shifting away from Frannie and her mother.

Frannie was teetering on the brink of action, and her mother was looking increasingly restless. Amelia had eased forward to the edge of the porch. The smell of magic intensified. For a long moment, the night seemed to catch its breath.

And then Frannie turned away. “Come on, Mama,” she said, and the two women got into Frannie’s car. I took advantage of the moment to run up on the porch. Amelia and I stood shoulder to shoulder wordlessly until Frannie started up the car and drove away.

“Well,” Amelia said. “So, you broke up with him, I’m gathering.”

“Yeah.” I was exhausted. “He had too much baggage.” Then I winced. “Gosh, I never thought I’d catch myself saying that. Especially considering my own.”

“He had his mama.” Amelia was on a perceptive roll that night.

“Yeah, he had his mama. Listen, thanks for coming out of the house and risking a mauling.”

“What are roommates for?” Amelia gave me a light hug and said, “You look like you need to have a bowl of soup and go to bed.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That sounds about right.”

I slept very late the next day. And I slept like a stone. I didn’t
dream. I didn’t toss or turn. I didn’t get up to pee. When I woke up, it was close to noon, so it was good I didn’t have to be at Merlotte’s until evening.

I could hear voices in the living room. This was the downside of having a roommate. There was someone there when you woke up, and sometimes that person had company. However, Amelia was very good about making enough coffee for me when she got up earlier. That prospect got me out of bed.

I had to get dressed since we had company; besides, the other voice sounded masculine. I did a little brisk grooming in the bathroom and threw off my nightgown. I put on a bra and a T-shirt and some khakis. Good enough. I made a beeline for the kitchen and found that Amelia had indeed made a big pot of coffee. And she’d left a mug ready for me. Oh, great. I poured, and popped some sourdough bread in the toaster. The back porch door slammed, and I turned in surprise to see Tyrese Marley enter with an armful of firewood.

“Where do you keep your wood after you bring it in?” he asked.

“I have a rack by the fireplace in the living room.” He’d been splitting the wood Jason had cut and stacked by the toolshed the spring before. “That’s really nice of you,” I said, floundering. “Um, have you had any coffee, or some toast? Or . . .” I glanced at the clock. “What about a ham or meatloaf sandwich?”

“Food sounds good,” he said, striding down the hall as though the wood weighed nothing.

So the guest in the living room was Copley Carmichael. Why Amelia’s dad was here, I had no clue. I scrambled to assemble a couple of sandwiches, poured some water, and put two kinds of chips by his plate so Marley could pick what he wanted. Then I sat down at the table myself and finally got to drink my coffee and eat my toast. I still had some of my grandmother’s plum jam to spread on it, and I tried not to be melancholy every time I used it. No point in letting good jam go to waste. She would have certainly looked at it that way.