Dead as a doornail - By Charlaine Harris Page 0,63

looked pretty good, despite being wrapped in a stained white apron. The outside floodlights lit up every little crease in her skin, revealing that Sweetie was a little older than I’d thought, but she still looked very fit for someone who cooked most of the day. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the white apron swathing her and the lingering perfume of cooking oil, Sweetie might have been a sexy woman. She certainly carried herself like a person who was used to being noticed.

We’d had such a succession of cooks that I hadn’t made much effort to know her. I was sure she’d drift away sooner or later—probably sooner. But she raised a hand in greeting and seemed to want to talk to me, so I paused.

“I’m sorry about your house,” she said. Her eyes were shining in the artificial light. It didn’t smell so great here by the Dumpster, but Sweetie was as relaxed as if she were on an Acapulco beach.

“Thanks,” I said. I just didn’t want to talk about it. “How are you today?”

“Fine, thanks.” She waved the hand with the cigarette around, indicating the parking lot. “Enjoying the view. Hey, you got something on your jacket.” Holding her hand carefully to one side so she wouldn’t get ash on me, she leaned forward, closer than my comfort zone permitted, and flicked something off my shoulder. She sniffed. Maybe the smokey smell of the burned wood clung to me, despite all my efforts.

“I need to go in. Time for my shift,” I said.

“Yeah, I gotta get back in myself. It’s a busy night.” But Sweetie stayed where she was. “You know, Sam’s just nuts about you.”

“I’ve worked for him for a long time.”

“No, I think it goes a little beyond that.”

“Ah, I don’t think so, Sweetie.” I couldn’t think of any polite way to conclude a conversation that had gotten way too personal.

“You were with him when he got shot, right?”

“Yeah, he was heading for his trailer and I was heading for my car.” I wanted to make it clear we were going in different directions.

“You didn’t notice anything?” Sweetie leaned against the wall and tilted her head back, her eyes closed as if she were sunbathing.

“No. I wish I had. I’d like the police to catch whoever’s doing this.”

“Did you ever think there might be a reason those people were targeted?”

“No,” I lied stoutly. “Heather and Sam and Calvin have nothing in common.”

Sweetie opened one brown eye and squinted up at me. “If we were in a mystery, they’d all know the same secret, or they’d have witnessed the same accident, or something. Or the police would find out they all had the same dry cleaner.” Sweetie flicked the ashes off her cigarette.

I relaxed a little. “I see what you’re getting at,” I said. “But I think real life doesn’t have as many patterns as a serial killer book. I think they were all chosen at random.”

Sweetie shrugged. “You’re probably right.” I saw she’d been reading a Tami Hoag suspense novel, now tucked into an apron pocket. She tapped her book with one blunt fingernail. “Fiction just makes it all more interesting. Truth is so boring.”

“Not in my world,” I said.

11

BILL BROUGHT A date into Merlotte’s that night. I assumed this was payback for my kissing Sam, or maybe I was just being proud. This possible payback was in the form of a woman from Clarice. I’d seen her in the bar before every once in a while. She was a slim brunette with shoulder-length hair, and Danielle could hardly wait to tell me she was Selah Pumphrey, a real estate saleswoman who’d gotten the million-dollar sales award the year before.

I hated her instantly, utterly, and passionately.

So I smiled as brightly as a thousand-watt bulb and brought them Bill’s warm TrueBlood and her cold screwdriver quick as a wink. I didn’t spit in the screwdriver, either. That was beneath me, I told myself. Also, I didn’t have enough privacy.

Not only was the bar crowded, but Charles was eyeing me watchfully. The pirate was in fine form tonight, wearing a white shirt with billowing sleeves and navy blue Dockers, a bright scarf pulled through the belt loops for a dash of color. His eye patch matched the Dockers, and it was embroidered with a gold star. This was as exotic as Bon Temps could get.

Sam beckoned me over to his tiny table, which we’d wedged into a corner. He had his bad leg propped up on