Dead as a doornail - By Charlaine Harris Page 0,35

underscored his bid to take Colonel’s Flood’s job as packmaster (or, as I referred to it internally, Leader of the Pack).

Alcide, to my right, was rigid with anger. If he hadn’t been sitting in the front row of a funeral, he would have loved to address a few remarks to me on the subject of Patrick Furnan. On the other side of Alcide, I could just barely see Christine, whose face looked carved out of ivory. She was suppressing quite a few things herself.

Alcide’s dad waited a moment to begin his trip to the lectern. Clearly, he wanted us to cleanse our mental palate before he gave his address.

Jackson Herveaux, wealthy surveyor and werewolf, gave us the chance to examine his maturely handsome face. He began, “We will not soon see the likes of John Flood. A man whose wisdom had been tempered and tested by the years . . .” Oh, ouch. This wasn’t going to be pointed or anything, no sirree.

I tuned out for the rest of the service to think my own thoughts. I had plenty of food for thought. We stood as John Flood, Air Force colonel and packmaster, exited this church for the last time. I remained silent during the ride to the cemetery, stood by Alcide’s side during the graveside service, and got back in the car when it was over and all the post-funeral handshaking was done.

I looked for the tall man, but he wasn’t at the cemetery.

On the drive back to Bon Temps, Alcide obviously wanted to keep our silence nice and clean, but it was time to answer some questions.

“How did you know?” I asked.

He didn’t even try to pretend to misunderstand what I was talking about. “When I came to your house yesterday, I could smell a very, very faint trace of her at your front door,” he said. “It took me a while to think it through.”

I’d never considered the possibility.

“I don’t think I would’ve picked up on it if I hadn’t known her so well,” he offered. “I certainly didn’t pick up a whiff anywhere else in the house.”

So all my scrubbing had been to some avail. I was just lucky Jack and Lily Leeds weren’t two-natured. “Do you want to know what happened?”

“I don’t think so,” he said after an appreciable pause. “Knowing Debbie, I’m guessing you only did what you had to do. After all, it was her scent at your house. She had no business there.”

This was far from a ringing endorsement.

“And Eric was still at your house then, wasn’t he? Maybe it was Eric?” Alcide sounded almost hopeful.

“No,” I said.

“Maybe I do want the whole story.”

“Maybe I’ve changed my mind about telling it to you. You either believe in me, or you don’t. Either you think I’m the kind of person who’d kill a woman for no good reason, or you know I’m not.” Truly, I was hurt more than I thought I’d be. I was very careful not to slip into Alcide’s head, because I was afraid I might pick up on something that would have been even more painful.

Alcide tried several times to open another conversation, but the drive couldn’t end soon enough for me. When he pulled into the clearing and I knew I was yards away from being in my own house, the relief was overwhelming. I couldn’t scramble out of that fancy car fast enough.

But Alcide was right behind me.

“I don’t care,” he said in a voice that was almost a growl.

“What?” I’d gotten to my front door, and the key was in the lock.

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t believe that for one minute.”

“What?”

“You’re harder to read than a plain human, Alcide, but I can see the pockets of reservation in your mind. Since you wanted me to help you out with your dad, I’ll tell you: Patrick Whatsisname plans to bring up your dad’s gambling problems to show he’s unsuitable as packleader.” Nothing more underhanded and supernatural than the truth. “I’d read his mind before you asked me to. I don’t want to see you for a long, long, long time.”

“What?” Alcide said again. He looked like I’d hit him in the head with an iron.

“Seeing you . . . listening to your head . . . makes me feel bad.” Of course, there were several different reasons they did, but I didn’t want to enumerate them. “So, thanks for the ride to the funeral.” (I may have sounded a bit sarcastic.) “I appreciate your thinking of me.” (Even