Dead as a doornail - By Charlaine Harris Page 0,58

staying with Jason,” I said promptly, leaving out the fact that I hoped that would be temporary.

“How long is it gonna take to rebuild?”

“Here’s the guy who can tell me,” I said gratefully. Randall Shurtliff was in a pickup, too, and he had his wife and partner with him. Delia Shurtliff was younger than Randall, pretty as a picture, and tough as nails. She was Randall’s second wife. When he’d gotten divorced from his “starter” wife, the one who’d had three children and cleaned his house for twelve years, Delia had already been working for Randall and had gradually begun to run his business for him far more efficiently than he’d ever done. He was able to give his first wife and sons more advantages with the money his second wife had helped him earn than he otherwise might have, had he married someone else. It was common knowledge (by which I mean I wasn’t the only one who knew this) that Delia was very ready for Mary Helen to remarry and for the three Shurtliff boys to graduate from high school.

I shut out Delia’s thoughts with a firm resolve to work on keeping my shields up. Randall was pleased to meet Alcide, whom he’d known by sight, and Randall was even more eager to take on rebuilding my kitchen when he knew I was a friend of Alcide’s. The Herveaux family carried a lot of weight personally and financially in the building trade. To my irritation, Randall began addressing all his remarks to Alcide instead of to me. Alcide accepted this quite naturally.

I looked at Delia. Delia looked at me. We were very unlike, but we were of one mind at that moment.

“What do you think, Delia?” I asked her. “How long?”

“He’ll huff and he’ll puff,” she said. Her hair was paler than mine, courtesy of the beauty salon, and she wore emphatic eye makeup, but she was dressed sensibly in khakis and a polo shirt with “Shurtliff Construction” in script above her left breast. “But he’s got that house over on Robin Egg to finish. He can work on your kitchen before he begins a house in Clarice. So, say, three to four months from now, you’ll have you a usable kitchen.”

“Thanks, Delia. Do I need to sign something?”

“We’ll get an estimate ready for you. I’ll bring it to the bar for you to check. We’ll include the new appliances, because we can get a dealer discount. But I’ll tell you right now, you’re looking at this ballpark.”

She showed me the estimate on a kitchen renovation they had done a month before.

“I have it,” I said, though I gave one long shriek deep inside. Even with the insurance money, I’d be using up a big chunk of what I had in the bank.

I should be thankful, I reminded myself sternly, that Eric had paid me all that money, that I had it to spend. I wouldn’t have to borrow from the bank or sell the land or take any other drastic step. I should think of that money as just passing through my account rather than living there. I hadn’t actually owned it. I’d just had custody of it for a while.

“You and Alcide good friends?” Delia asked, our business concluded.

I gave it some thought. “Some days,” I answered honestly.

She laughed, a harsh cackle that was somehow sexy. Both men looked around, Randall smiling, Alcide quizzical. They were too far away to hear what we were saying.

“I’ll tell you something,” Delia Shurtliff said to me quietly. “Just between you and me and the fencepost. Jackson Herveaux’s secretary, Connie Babcock—you met her?”

I nodded. I’d at least seen her and talked to her when I’d dropped by Alcide’s office in Shreveport.

“She got arrested this morning for stealing from Herveaux and Son.”

“What did she take?” I was all ears.

“This is what I don’t understand. She was caught sneaking some papers out of Jackson Herveaux’s office. Not business papers, but personal, the way I heard it. She said she’d been paid to do it.”

“By?”

“Some guy who owns a motorcycle dealership. Now, does that make sense?”

It did if you knew that Connie Babcock had been sleeping with Jackson Herveaux, as well as working in his office. It did if you suddenly realized that Jackson had taken Christine Larrabee, a pure Were and influential, to the funeral of Colonel Flood, instead of taking the powerless human Connie Babcock.

While Delia elaborated on the story, I stood, lost in thought. Jackson Herveaux was without a doubt