Dead as a Doornail (Sookie Stackhouse #5)(30)
Author: Charlaine Harris

"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, some of it very old indeed. One of my greats had come from a family with a little money, and she’d brought a set of fine china and a silver tea service that had been a pain to polish. I’d never have to polish it again, I realized, but there was no joy in the thought. My Nova was old, and I’d needed to replace it for a long time, but I hadn’t planned on that being now.

Well, I had insurance, and I had money in the bank, thanks to the vampires who’d paid me for keeping Eric when he’d lost his memory.

"And you had smoke detectors?" Greg was asking.

"Yes, I did," I said, remembering the high-pitched pulsing that had started up right after Claudine had woken me. "If the ceiling in the hall is still there, you’ll be able to see one."

There were no more back steps to get us up onto the porch, and the porch floorboards looked very unsteady. In fact, the washer had half fallen through and was tilted at an odd angle. It made me sick, seeing my everyday things, things I’d touched and used hundreds of times, exposed to the world and ruined.

"We’ll go through from the front door," Greg suggested, and I was glad to agree.

It was still unlocked, and I felt a flutter of alarm before I realized how ludicrous that was. I stepped in. The first thing I noticed was the smell. Everything reeked of smoke. I opened the windows, and the cool breeze that blew through began to clear the smell out until it was just tolerable.

This end of the house was better than I’d expected. The furniture would need cleaning, of course. But the floor was solid and undamaged. I didn’t even go up the stairs; I seldom used the rooms up there, so whatever had happened up there could wait.

My arms were crossed under my br**sts. I looked from side to side, moving slowly across the room toward the hall. I felt the floor vibrate as someone else came in. I knew without looking around that Jason was behind me. He and Greg said something to each other, but after a second Jason fell silent, as shocked as I was.

We passed into the hall. The door to my bedroom and the door to the bedroom across the hall were both open. My bedding was still thrown back. My slippers were beside the night table. All the windows were smudged with smoke and moisture, and the dreadful odor grew even stronger. There was the smoke detector on the hall ceiling. I pointed to it silently. I opened the door to the linen closet and found that everything in it felt damp. Well, these things could be washed. I went into my room and opened my closet door. My closet shared a wall with the kitchen. At first glance my clothes looked intact, until I noticed that each garment hanging on a wire hanger had a line across the shoulders where the heated hanger had singed the cloth. My shoes had baked. Maybe three pairs were usable.

I gulped.

Though I felt shakier by the second, I joined my brother and the insurance agent as they carefully continued down the hall to the kitchen.

The floor closest to the old part of the house seemed okay. The kitchen had been a large room, since it had also served as the family dining room. The table was partially burned, as were two of the chairs. The linoleum on the floor was all broken up, and some of it was charred. The hot water heater had gone through the floor, and the curtains that had covered the window over the sink were hanging in strips. I remembered Gran making those curtains; she hadn’t enjoyed sewing, but the ones from JCPenney that she’d liked were just too much. So she’d gotten out her mother’s old sewing machine and bought some cheap but pretty flowered material at Hancock’s, and she’d measured, and cursed under her breath, and worked and worked until finally she’d gotten them done. Jason and I had admired them extravagantly to make her feel it had been worth the effort, and she’d been so pleased.

I opened one drawer, the one that had held all the keys. They were melted together. I pressed my lips together, hard. Jason stood beside me, looked down.

"Shit," he said, his voice low and vicious. That helped me push the tears back.

I held on to his arm for just a minute. He patted me awkwardly. Seeing items so familiar, items made dear by use, irrevocably altered by fire was a terrible shock, no matter how many times I reminded myself that the whole house could have been consumed by the flames; that I could have died, too. Even if the smoke detector had wakened me in time, there was every likelihood I would have run outside to be confronted by the arsonist, Jeff Marriot.

Almost everything on the east side of the kitchen was ruined. The floor was unstable. The kitchen roof was gone.

"It’s lucky the rooms upstairs don’t extend over the kitchen," Greg said when he came down from examining the two bedrooms and the attic. "You’ll have to get a builder to let you know, but I think the second story is essentially sound."

I talked to Greg about money after that. When would it come? How much would it be? What deductible would I have to pay?