Dead as a doornail - By Charlaine Harris Page 0,51

yeah,” the bodyguard said, one foot already in his pickup. “Calvin said let him know who done this, if it was ordered by someone besides the sumbitch dead at the scene.”

I looked at what remained of my kitchen and could almost count the feet from the flames to my bedroom. “I appreciate that most of all,” I said, before my Christian self could smother the thought. Dawson’s brown eyes met mine in a moment of perfect accord.

9

THANKS TO MAXINE, I had clean-smelling clothes to wear to work, but I had to go buy some footwear at Payless. Normally, I put a little money into my shoes since I have to stand up so much, but there was no time to go to Clarice to the one good shoe shop there or to drive over to Monroe to the mall. When I got to work, Sweetie Des Arts came out of the kitchen to hug me, her thin body wrapped in a white cook’s apron. Even the boy who bussed the tables told me he was sorry. Holly and Danielle, who were switching off shifts, each gave me a pat on the shoulder and told me they hoped things got better for me.

Arlene asked me if I thought that handsome Dennis Pettibone would be coming by, and I told her I was sure he would.

“I guess he has to travel a lot,” she said thoughtfully. “I wonder where he’s based.”

“I got his business card. He’s based in Shreveport. He told me he bought himself a small farm right outside of Shreveport, now that I think about it.”

Arlene’s eyes narrowed. “Sounds like you and Dennis had a nice talk.”

I started to protest that the arson investigator was a little long in the tooth for me, but since Arlene had stuck to saying she was thirty-six for the past three years, I figured that would be less than tactful. “He was just passing the time of day,” I told her. “He asked me how long I’d worked with you, and did you have any kids.”

“Oh. He did?” Arlene beamed. “Well, well.” She went to check on her tables with a cheerful strut to her walk.

I set about my work, having to take longer than usual to do everything because of the constant interruptions. I knew some other town sensation would soon eclipse my house fire. Though I couldn’t hope anyone else would experience a similar disaster, I would be glad when I wasn’t the object of discussion of every single bar patron.

Terry hadn’t been able to handle the light daytime bar duties today, so Arlene and I pitched in to cover it. Being busy helped me feel less self-conscious.

Though I was coasting on three hours of sleep, I managed okay until Sam called me from the hallway that led to his office and the public bathrooms.

Two people had come in earlier and gone up to his corner table to talk to him; I’d noted them only in passing. The woman was in her sixties, very round and short. She used a cane. The young man with her was brown haired, with a sharp nose and heavy brows to give his face some character. He reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t make the reference pop to the top of my head. Sam had ushered them back into his office.

“Sookie,” Sam said unhappily, “the people in my office want to talk to you.”

“Who are they?”

“She’s Jeff Marriot’s mother. The man is his twin.”

“Oh my God,” I said, realizing the man reminded me of the corpse. “Why do they want to talk to me?”

“They don’t think he ever had anything to do with the Fellowship. They don’t understand anything about his death.”

To say I dreaded this encounter was putting it mildly. “Why talk to me?” I said in a kind of subdued wail. I was nearly at the end of my emotional endurance.

“They just . . . want answers. They’re grieving.”

“So am I,” I said. “My home.”

“Their loved one.”

I stared at Sam. “Why should I talk to them?” I asked. “What is it you want from me?”

“You need to hear what they have to say,” Sam said with a note of finality in his voice. He wouldn’t push any more, and he wouldn’t explain any more. Now the decision was up to me.

Because I trusted Sam, I nodded. “I’ll talk to them when I get off work,” I said. I secretly hoped they’d leave by then. But when my shift was over, the two were