Dead Ever After

Chapter 7

By the time I was able to leave work, I felt like I’d been steamed and left out on the counter.

We had gotten to open at three on the dot, to my surprise. By then rumors and facts had spread all over Bon Temps. A big crowd showed up at Merlotte’s just pining to get the lowdown on what had actually happened. What with questions from every customer and the endless speculations of Andrea Norr, I was fixing to start screaming.

“So who could have put her in the Dumpster, and how’d they get her in there?” An said for the fiftieth time. “Antoine puts the kitchen trash in there. That’s disgusting.”

“It sure is,” I said, just managing not to bite her head off. “That’s why we’re not going to talk about it.”

“Okay! Okay! I get your drift, Sookie. Mum’s the word. At least I’m telling everyone that you didn’t do it, sweetie.” And she went right back to talking. There was no doubt that gossipy An had the mysterious “it.” Following her movements around the bar was like watching an all-male rendition of the wave.

It was nice to know that An was telling everyone I wasn’t guilty, but it was depressing to think that anyone would have assumed I was. An’s reasoning echoed that of the detectives. It seemed impossible that a lone woman could lift Arlene, literally a dead weight, up into the mouth of the Dumpster.

In fact, when I tried to picture the insertion, the only way such a maneuver would work for one person would be if the killer already had Arlene over his shoulder (and I was using his because it would take a strong person to lift Arlene that way). She had gotten skinny, but she was still no featherweight.

Two people could do it easily enough—or one supernatural of any gender.

I glanced over at Sam, working behind the bar. Since he was a shifter, he was incredibly strong. He could easily have tossed Arlene’s corpse into the trash.

He could have, but he hadn’t.

The most obvious reason was that he would never put Arlene’s corpse in the Dumpster right behind his business in the first place. Second, Sam would never have staged himself finding the body with me as witness. And third, I simply didn’t believe he would have killed Arlene, not without some compelling reason or in the heat of some terrible struggle. Fourth, he would already have told me if either of those circumstances applied.

If Andy understood that I couldn’t get Arlene in there by myself, he must be trying to figure out who would help me do such a thing. When I considered that, I did have a lot of friends and acquaintances who were not strangers to body disposal. They would help me with few questions asked. But what did that say about my life?

Okay, screw the brooding introspection. My life was what it was. If it had been tougher and bloodier than I’d ever imagined . . . that was a done deal.

Suspect Number One for “helping Sookie dispose of a body” came in right after that. My brother, Jason, was a werepanther, and though he hadn’t ever changed publicly, word had gotten around. Jason had never been able to keep his mouth shut when he was excited about something. If I’d called him to help me put a woman in a Dumpster, he would have jumped in his pickup and been there as fast as he could drive.

I waved at my brother as he walked in the door holding hands with his Michele. Jason was still stained and sweaty after a long, hot day’s work as a boss of one of the parish road crews. Michele looked perky in contrast, in her red polo shirt all the employees wore at the Schubert Ford dealership. They were both in the throes of marriage fever. But like everyone else in Bon Temps, they were fascinated by the death of a former Merlotte’s server.

I didn’t want to talk about Arlene, so I headed them off by telling Michele I’d found a dress to wear in the wedding. Their forthcoming ceremony took precedence over everything else, even a lurid death in the parking lot. As I’d hoped, Michele asked me a million questions and said she was going to come by to look at it, and she told me Greater Love Baptist (Michele’s dad’s church) was willing to lend their folding tables and chairs for the potluck reception at Jason’s house. A friend of Michele’s had volunteered to make the cake as her wedding present to the happy couple, and the mother of another friend was going to do the flowers at cost. By the time they’d finished their meals and paid their tab, the word “strangled” hadn’t entered the conversation.

That was the only respite I had the whole evening. Though I’d noticed the bar crowd was thin the previous day, an amazing number of people now told me they’d seen Arlene enter Merlotte’s. They’d all spoken to her personally before watching her go to the office. And they’d all watched her leave (either five or fifteen or fifty minutes afterward) with steam coming out of her ears. No matter how their stories varied on other points of interest, to me that was the important memory: that she’d left, alive and unharmed. And angry.

“Did she come to ask your forgiveness?” Maxine Fortenberry asked. Maxine had come in to have supper with two of her cronies, buddies of my grandmother’s.

“No, she wanted a job,” I said, with as much frank and open honesty as I could plaster on my face.

All three women looked delightfully shocked. “Not really,” Maxine breathed. “She had the gall to ask if she could have her job back?”

“She couldn’t see why not,” I said, lifting a shoulder as I gathered up their dirty plates. “You all want a refill on your tea?”

“Sure, bring the pitcher around,” Maxine said. “My Lord, Sookie. That just takes the cake.”

She was absolutely right.

The next moment I had to spare was spent cudgeling my brain to try to remember when I’d last seen that blue and green scarf. Sam had said he remembered me wearing it to church with a black dress. That would have been to a funeral, because I didn’t like to wear black and reserved it for the most serious occasions. Whose funeral? Maybe Sid Matt Lancaster’s? Or Caroline Bellefleur’s? I’d been to several funerals in the past couple of years, since most of Gran’s friends were aging, but Sam wouldn’t have gone to those.

Jane Bodehouse drifted into Merlotte’s close to suppertime. She clambered onto her usual stool at the bar. I could feel my face get tight and angry when I looked at her. “You’ve got some nerve, Jane,” I said baldly. “Why do you want to drink here, when you’re so damaged by the firebomb incident? I can’t believe you can endure coming in here, you suffered so much.”

She was surprised for a second until the cogs in her brain turned enough to give up the memory that she’d hired a lawyer. She looked away, ostentatiously, trying to brazen it out.

The next time I passed her, she’d asked Sam to give her some more pretzels. He was reaching for the bowl. “Better hurry,” I said bitchily. “We don’t want Jane to get upset and call her lawyer.” Sam looked at me in surprise. He hadn’t seen the mail yet. “Jane’s suing us, Sam,” I said, and marched to the hatch to give the next order to Antoine. “For her hospital expenses and maybe for her mental distress,” I threw over my shoulder.

“Jane,” Sam said behind me, genuinely amazed. “Jane Bodehouse! Where are you gonna drink if you sue us? We’re the only bar in the area that lets you in these days!” Sam was telling her no more than the truth. Over the years, most of the bars in the area had come to refuse to serve Jane, who was prone to make sloppy passes at any man in her immediate vicinity. Only the drunkest men responded, because Jane wasn’t as careful with her personal hygiene as she had been even a year before.

“You can’t stop serving me,” she said indignantly. “Marvin says so. And that lawyer.”

“I think we can,” Sam said. “Starting now. You even know what that lawsuit says?” That was a shrewd bet.

As if he’d heard us, here came Marvin through the door, and he was mighty mad. “Mama!” he called. “What are you doing here? I told you, you can’t come here no more.” He caught my eye and glanced away, abashed. Everyone in Merlotte’s stopped what they were doing to listen. It was almost as good as reality television.

“Marvin,” I said, “I’m just hurt down to my toes that you would treat us like this. All these times I’ve called you instead of letting your mama drive home. All these times we’ve cleaned her up when she got sick, to say nothing of the night I stopped her from taking a guy into the ladies’ room. Are you going to keep your mama at home every night? How are you going to cope?”

I wasn’t saying anything that wasn’t the truth. And Marvin Bodehouse knew it.

“Just half the emergency room bill, then?” he said, pathetically.

“I’ll pay her bill,” Sam said handsomely. Of course, he hadn’t seen it. “But only after we get a letter from your lawyer saying you’re not going to seek anything else.”

Marvin glared down at his shoes for a second. Then he said, “I guess you can stay, Mama. Try not to drink too much, you hear?”

“Sure, honey,” Jane said, tapping the bar in front of her. “A chaser for that beer,” she told Sam, in a lady-of-the-manor voice.

“Putting that on your tab,” Sam said. And suddenly the life of the bar was back to normal. Marvin shuffled out, and Jane drank. I felt sorry for both of them, but I was not in charge of their lives, and all I could do was try to keep Jane off the roads when she was drunk.

An and I worked hard. Since everyone who came in proved to be hungry (maybe they needed fuel to produce their gossip), Antoine was so busy he lost his temper a couple of times, an unusual occurrence. Sam tried to find time to smile and greet people, but he was hustling to keep up with bar orders. My feet hurt, and my hair needed to be released from its ponytail, brushed, and put back up. I was looking forward to a shower with a craving almost sexual in its intensity. I actually managed to forget my appointment—I wasn’t going to call it a date—with Eric for later that night, but when it crossed my mind I realized I hadn’t gotten a definite time or place from him.

“Screw it,” I said to the plate of curly fries I was carrying to a table of auto-shop mechanics. “Here you go, fellas. And here’s some hot sauce, if you want to live dangerously. Eat and enjoy.”

Right on the heels of that thought, Karin glided through the front door. She looked around her as if she were in the monkey house at the zoo. Her eyebrows elevated slightly. Then she locked in on me, and she made her way toward me with a smoothness and economy of movement I envied.

“Sookie,” she said quietly, “Eric needs you to come to him now.” We were attracting no small amount of attention. Karin’s beauty, her pallor, and her creepy glide were a combo that added up to Watch me, I’m beautiful and lethal.

“Karin, I’m working,” I said, in that sort of hiss that comes out when you’re pissed off but trying to keep your voice down. “See? Earning a living?”

She looked around her. “Here? Truly?” Her tiny white nose wrinkled.

I took hold of my temper with both hands. “Yes, here. This is my business.”

Sam came up, trying hard to act casual. “Sookie, who’s your friend?”

“Sam, this is Karin the—this is Karin Slaughter, my alibi for last night. She’s here to tell me Eric needs me in Shreveport. Now.”

Sam was trying to look genial, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Karin, nice to meet you. We’re pretty busy. Can’t Eric wait for an hour?”

“No.” Karin didn’t look stubborn or angry or impatient. She looked matter-of-fact.

We stood silently regarding each other for a long moment.

“All right, Sook, I’ll take your tables,” Sam said. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll manage.”

“You’re the boss, Sam.” Karin’s arctic eyes gave my boss—my partner—a laserlike examination.

“I’m the boss, Sam,” he said agreeably. “Sook, I’ll come if you need me . . .”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, though I knew that wasn’t true. “Really, don’t worry.”

Sam looked torn. A group of thirtyish women who were celebrating a divorce began hollering for a refill on their pitcher of beer. They were the deciding factor. “Will you be responsible for her safety?” Sam said to Karin.

“With my existence,” Karin said calmly.

“Let me get my purse,” I told Karin, and hurried to the lockers at the back of the storeroom. I whipped off my apron, dropped it in the “dirty” barrel, and changed into a clean T-shirt from my locker. I brushed my hair in the ladies’ room, though since it had a dent all around from the elastic band, I had to put it back up in its ponytail. At least it looked neater.

No shower, no fresh dress, no nice shoes. At least I had lipstick.

I stuck my tongue out at the mirror and slung my purse over my shoulder. Time to face the music, though I didn’t know what tune would be playing.

I didn’t know how Karin had arrived at Merlotte’s; maybe she could fly, like Eric. She rode with me in my car to Shreveport. Eric’s oldest child wasn’t much of a talker. Her only question was, “How long did it take you to learn to drive a car?” She seemed mildly interested when I told her I’d taken driver’s education in high school. After that, she stared ahead of her. She might be thinking deep thoughts about the world economy, or she might be totally miffed that she’d gotten escort detail. I had no way of knowing.

Finally, I said, “Karin, I guess you just got to Louisiana recently. How long had it been since you’d seen Eric?”

“I arrived two days ago. It had been two hundred and fifty-three years since I saw my maker.”

“I guess he hadn’t changed much,” I said, perhaps a bit sarcastically. Vampires never changed.

“No,” she said, and fell silent again.

She wasn’t going to give me a way to ease into the topic I had to broach. I simply had to take the plunge. “Karin, as I asked Mustapha to tell you, the police in Bon Temps may want to talk to you about when you saw me last night.”

Karin did turn to look at me then. Though I was watching the road, I could see the movement of her head out of the corner of my eye.

“Mustapha gave me your message, yes. What shall I say?” she asked.

“That you saw me in my house about eleven thirty or midnight, whichever it was, and that you watched the house until daybreak, so you know I didn’t leave,” I said. “Isn’t that the truth?”

Karin said, “It might be.” And then she didn’t say one more word.

Karin was pretty fucking irritating. Excuse me.

I was actually glad to get to Fangtasia. I was used to parking in the back with the staff. Just as I was about to drive around the row of stores, Karin said, “It is blocked off. You must leave your car out here.”

Since the first time I’d been here with Bill, I’d seldom parked in front with the customers. I’d been a privileged visitor for months. I’d fought and bled with the Fangtasia staff, and I’d counted some of them as my friends, or at least my allies. Now, apparently, I was one of the crowd of casual human thrill-seekers. It hurt a little bit.

I was sure that would prove to be the least of my hurts.

While I was giving myself a pep talk, I was cruising through the rows of cars looking for a space. The search took a few minutes. I could hear a faint strain of music when we got out of the car, so I knew there must be a live band tonight (“live” in the sense that they were actually onstage).

Every now and then a vampire group would play a few sets at Shreveport’s only vamp bar, and this seemed to be one of those nights. Newly turned vampires played covers of music they had loved in life, recent human music, but the old vampires would play things that living people had never heard, mixed in with some human songs they found appealing. I’d never met a vampire who didn’t love “Thriller.”

At least Karin and I were able to bypass the line waiting at the cover charge booth, which was occupied by a snarling Thalia. I was glad to see her arm had reattached, and I tapped my own right forearm and gave her a thumbs-up. Her face relaxed for a moment, which was as close as Thalia got to a smile unless flowing blood was involved.

Inside the club, the noise level was tolerable. The sensitivity of vamp hearing kept the volume at a level I could endure. Crowded together on the little music platform was a cluster of very hairy men and women. I was willing to bet they’d been turned in the sixties. The nineteen sixties. On the West Coast. It was a big clue when they ended “Honky Tonk Women” to flow into “San Francisco.” I peeked at their tattered jeans. Yep, bell-bottoms. Headbands. Flowered shirts. Flowing locks. A slice of history here in Shreveport.

And then Eric was standing beside me, and my heart gave a little leap. I didn’t know if it was happiness at his proximity, or apprehension that this might be the last time I’d see him, or simple fear. His hand touched my face as his head bent toward mine. He said into my ear, just loud enough for me to hear, “This is what has to be done, but never doubt my affection.”

He bent even closer. I thought he was going to kiss me, but he was just getting my scent. Vampires only inhale when they really want to savor a smell, and that was what he was doing.

He took my hand to lead me to the management part of the bar, to his office. He looked back at me once, and I could tell he was reminding me without words that he wanted me to remember that whatever was coming was all a show.

Every muscle in my body tensed.

Eric’s office wasn’t big, and it wasn’t grand, but it sure was crowded. Pam was leaning against a wall, looking amazingly suburban-chic in pink capris and a flowered tank, but any relief I might have experienced on seeing a familiar face was simply swamped by more apprehension when I recognized Felipe de Castro—King of Nevada, Louisiana, and Arkansas—and Freyda, Queen of Oklahoma. I’d been sure they’d be there, one or the other, but to see both . . . my heart sank.

The presence of royalty never meant anything good.

Felipe was behind the desk, sitting in Eric’s chair, naturally. He was flanked by his right hand, Horst Friedman, and his consort, Angie Weatherspoon. Angie was a leggy redhead I’d hardly exchanged two words with. I’d hate her forever because she’d danced on Eric’s favorite table while wearing spike-heeled shoes.

Maybe I would write a rap song called “Flanked by His Flunkies.”

Maybe Eric’s table wasn’t my problem any longer.

Maybe I should crawl back into my right mind instead of freaking out.

There was a throw rug in front of the desk. Eric and I had been literally called on the carpet.

“Looking real, Sookie,” Pam said. Of course she would comment on my waitress outfit. I probably smelled like French fries.

“I didn’t have a choice,” I said.

“Meees Stekhuss,” Felipe said pleasantly. “How nice to see you again.”

“Hmmm,” Freyda said, from her chair against the wall facing the door. It seemed she disagreed.

I glanced behind me to see that an expressionless Karin was blocking the doorway. Pam was Emo Emma compared to Karin. “I’ll be right outside,” Eric’s oldest announced. She took a step back, and then she shut the door very firmly.

“So here we are, a big extended family,” I said. Kind of shows you how nervous I was.

Pam rolled her eyes. She didn’t seem to feel that now was the time for humor.

“Sookie,” Felipe de Castro said, and I saw we’d dispensed with honorifics. “Eric has called you here to release you from your marriage to him.”

It was like being smacked in the face with a large dead fish.

I made myself hold still, made my face freeze. There’s halfway wanting, or suspecting, or even expecting—and there’s knowing. Knowing at least has some certainty about it, but also a sharper, deeper pain.

Of course, I’d had conflicted feelings about my relationship with Eric. Of course, I’d more or less seen the handwriting on the wall. But no matter Eric’s little midnight visit and his previous hurried heads-up, this bald pronouncement was a shock—one I wasn’t going to bow down to, not in front of these creatures. I began sealing off little compartments inside myself—just like the ones that had theoretically ensured that the Titanic was unsinkable.

I did not even glance at Freyda. If I saw pity in her face, I would jump her and try to smack her down, whether that meant suicide or not. I hoped she was sneering in triumph, because that would be more tolerable.

Looking at Eric’s face was out of the question.

All this rage and misery swept through me like a windstorm. When I was certain my voice wouldn’t quaver, I said, “Is there some paper to sign, some ceremony? Or shall I just walk out?”

“There is a ceremony.”

Of course there was. Vampires had a ritual for everything.

Pam came to my side with a familiar black velvet bundle in her hands. To my vague surprise, though I wasn’t really feeling much of anything, she leaned over to give me a cold kiss on the cheek. She said, “You just nick yourself on the arm and you say, ‘This is yours no longer,’ to Eric. You hand the knife to Eric.” She unfolded the velvet to expose the knife.

The ceremonial blade was gleaming and ornate and sharp, just as I remembered it. I had a momentary impulse to sink it into one of the silent hearts around me. I didn’t know which one I’d aim for first: Felipe’s, Freyda’s, or even Eric’s. Before I could think of this too much, I took the knife in my right hand and poked my left forearm. A tiny trickle of blood coursed down my arm, and I felt every vampire in the room react.

Felipe actually shut his eyes to savor the bouquet. “You are giving up more than I ever imagined,” he murmured to Eric. (Felipe moved to the top of my stab-in-the-heart list instantly.)

I turned to face Eric, but I kept my eyes on his chest. To look up at his face would be to risk cracking. “This is yours no longer,” I said clearly, with a certain amount of satisfaction. I held the knife out in his general direction, and I felt him remove it from my grasp. Eric bared his own forearm and stabbed himself—not the jab I’d given my arm, but a real slice. The dark blood flowed sluggishly down his arm to his hand and dripped on the worn carpet.

“This is yours no longer,” Eric said quietly.

“You may go now, Sookie,” Felipe said. “You will not come to Fangtasia again.”

There was nothing left to say.

I turned and walked out of Eric’s office. The door opened magically in front of me. Karin’s pale eyes met mine briefly. There was no expression on her lovely face. No one said a word. Not “Good-bye,” or “It’s been swell,” or “Kiss my foot.”

I made my way through the dancing crowd.

And back to my car.

And I drove home.