Dead as a doornail - By Charlaine Harris Page 0,46
to meet Greg Aubert, the insurance agent. I dressed in a pair of Bill’s jeans and a shirt of his. They’d been left outside my door, along with heavy socks. His shoes were out of the question, but to my delight I found an old pair of rubber-soled slippers I’d left at the very back of the closet. Bill still had some coffee and a coffeemaker in his kitchen from our courtship, and I was grateful to have a mug to carry with me as I made my way carefully across the cemetery and through the belt of woods surrounding what was left of my house.
Greg was pulling into the front yard as I stepped from the trees. He got out of his truck, scanned my oddly fitting ensemble, and politely ignored it. He and I stood side by side, regarding the old house. Greg had sandy hair and rimless glasses, and he was an elder in the Presbyterian Church. I’d always liked him, at least in part because whenever I’d taken my grandmother by to pay her premiums, he’d come out of his office to shake her hand and make her feel like a valued client. His business acumen was matched only by his luck. People had said for years that his personal good fortune extended to his policyholders, though of course they said this in a joking kind of way.
“If only I could have foreseen this,” Greg said. “Sookie, I am so sorry this happened.”
“What do you mean, Greg?”
“Oh, I’m just . . . I wish I’d thought of you needing more coverage,” he said absently. He began walking around to the back of the house, and I trailed behind him. Curious, I began to listen in to his head, and I was startled out of my gloom by what I heard there.
“So casting spells to back up your insurance really works?” I asked.
He yelped. There’s no other word for it. “It’s true about you,” he gasped. “I—I don’t—it’s just . . .” He stood outside my blackened kitchen and gaped at me.
“It’s okay,” I said reassuringly. “You can pretend I don’t know if it’ll help you feel better.”
“My wife would just die if she knew,” he said soberly. “And the kids, too. I just want them kept separate from this part of my life. My mother was . . . she was . . .”
“A witch?” I supplied helpfully.
“Well, yes.” Greg’s glasses glinted in the early morning sun as he looked at what was left of my kitchen. “But my dad always pretended he didn’t know, and though she kept training me to take her place, I wanted to be a normal man more than anything in the world.” Greg nodded, as if to say he’d achieved his goal.
I looked down into my mug of coffee, glad I had something to hold in my hands. Greg was lying to himself in a major way, but it wasn’t up to me to point that out to him. It was something he’d have to square with his God and his conscience. I wasn’t saying Greg’s method was a bad one, but it sure wasn’t a normal man’s choice. Insuring your livelihood (literally) by the use of magic had to be against some kind of rule.
“I mean, I’m a good agent,” he said, defending himself, though I hadn’t said a word. “I’m careful about what I insure. I’m careful about checking things out. It’s not all the magic.”
“Oh, no,” I said, because he would just explode with anxiety if I didn’t. “People have accidents anyway, right?”
“Regardless of what spells I use,” he agreed gloomily. “They drive drunk. And sometimes metal parts give way, no matter what.”
The idea of conventional Greg Aubert going around Bon Temps putting spells on cars was almost enough to distract me from the ruin of my house . . . but not quite.
In the clear chilly daylight, I could see the damage in full. Though I kept telling myself it could have been much worse—and that I was very lucky that the kitchen had extended off the back of the house, since it had been built at a later date—it had also been the room that had held big-ticket items. I’d have to replace the stove, the refrigerator, the hot water heater, and the microwave, and the back porch had been home to my washer and drier.
After the loss of those major appliances, there came the dishes and the pots and the pans and the silverware,