Dead Ever After (Sookie Stackhouse #13)(40)
Author: Charlaine Harris

The former reporter backpedaled. "No, no, I just want some color to enhance my picture of her life. That’s all. What it was like to actually be there that night, at that party, and to see Kym alive in her last minutes."

"It was disgusting," I said without thinking.

"Because your boyfriend, Eric Northman, drank blood from Kym Rowe?"

Duh! That was public record, too. But that didn’t mean I enjoyed being reminded. "The party just wasn’t my cup of tea," I said evenly. "I got there late, and I didn’t like what I found when I walked in."

"Why not you, Ms. Stackhouse? That is, why didn’t he drink from you?"

"That’s really not any of your business, Mr. Powell."

He leaned across the coffee table, all confidential and intense. "Sookie, I’m trying to write the story of this sad girl’s life. To do her justice, I’d like all the details I can gather."

"Mr. Powell – Harp – she’s dead. She won’t ever know what you write about her. She’s beyond worrying about justice."

"You’re saying it’s the living who count, not the dead."

"In this instance, yes. That’s what I’m saying."

"So there are secrets to know about her death," he said, righteously.

If I’d had the energy, I’d have thrown up my hands. "I don’t know what you’re trying to get me to say. She came to the party, Eric drank from her, she left the party, and the police tell me a woman whose name they won’t release called them to confess she’d strangled Kym."

I took a second to check my memory. "She was wearing a green and pink dress, real bright, kind of low-cut, with spaghetti straps. And high-heeled sandals. I can’t remember what color they were." No underwear, but I wasn’t going to mention that.

"And did you talk to her?"

"No." I didn’t think I’d addressed her directly.

"But this bad behavior, this blood drinking, was offensive to you. You didn’t like Eric Northman drinking from Kym."

Screw trying to be polite. By now, Bill had put down his bottle and moved to the edge of the couch as if he were ready to rocket to his feet.

"I did very thorough interviews with the police. I don’t want to talk about Kym Rowe again, ever."

"And it’s true," he said, as if I hadn’t spoken, "that though the cops say Kym’s killer confessed over the phone, she’s never been caught, and she may be dead somewhere just like Kym Rowe is? You hated Kym Rowe and she died, and you hated Arlene Fowler and she died. What about Jannalynn Hopper?"

Bill’s eyes lit up from within like brown torches. He hauled Harp up by his collar and marched him out of the house in a way that would have been pretty funny if I hadn’t been so angry and so scared.

"I hope this is the end of Bill’s fascination with writers," I said out loud. I would have loved to go to bed, but I figured Bill would be back. Sure enough, he knocked on the back door in ten minutes. He was alone.

I let him in, and I’m sure I looked as exasperated as I felt.

"I’m so sorry, Sookie," he said. "I didn’t know any of this: that Harp had been fired, that he’d developed this fixation on vampires, that you had been arrested. I’m going to have a talk with Danny about keeping me better informed on local matters. What can I do to help you?"

"If you could find out who killed Arlene, it would really help." I may have sounded a little sarcastic. "It was my scarf around her neck, Bill."

"How did you get out, accused of such a crime?"

"Not only was there no absolutely damning evidence tying me to the murder, Eric sent Mustapha to bail me out, which I can’t figure. We’re not married anymore and he’s leaving with Freyda. Why does he care? I mean, I don’t think he hates me, but putting up bail money . . ."

Bill said, "Of course he doesn’t hate you," but he said it a little abstractedly, as if he’d had a sudden thought. "Though I’m in communication with others at Fangtasia, I’m surprised he hasn’t summoned me. It seems I should pay my sheriff a visit . . . and find out when he’s leaving us." Bill sat sunk in thought for a long moment. "Who will be the next sheriff?" he said, and his whole body was tense.

Understandably, I hadn’t gotten that far in my thinking. What with the losing-my-boyfriend heartache and the murder charge.

"That’s a good question," I said, without much interest. "Be sure and let me know when you find out. I guess Felipe will bring in one of his people." I’d worry about that later, when I had the energy. A henchperson of Felipe’s could sure make my life more difficult, but I couldn’t think about it now.

"Good night, sweetheart," Bill said, to my surprise. "I’m glad to see Karin is earning her keep, though I didn’t expect Eric would put her outside your house perpetually."

"Neither did I, but I think it’s wonderful."

"I thought Harp was a gentleman. I was wrong."

"Think nothing of it." My eyelids were sagging shut.

He kissed me on the lips. My eyelids were suddenly wide apart. He stepped back, and I caught my breath. Bill had always kissed like a champion. If there’d been a kissing Olympics, he’d have advanced to the finals. But I wasn’t starting anything up. I stepped back, too, and let the screen door close between us.

"Sleep well." And Bill was gone, across the yard and into the woods, moving so swiftly and silently that I expected to see "zoom" marks behind him.

But he stopped dead just inside the tree line.

Someone had stepped out in front of him.

I caught the flowing movement of long pale hair. Karin and Bill were in conversation. I hoped Harp Powell didn’t try to return to my woods and "interview" Karin. The last human male I’d known who’d been hooked on a vampire female had had a sad end.

And then I yawned and forgot all about the reporter. I locked every lock on every door and window, and crawled into bed.

Chapter 11

When I got up the next morning, it was pouring rain again – yay, no watering! – and I was still tired. I discovered that I didn’t know when I’d scheduled myself to work, I didn’t have any clean uniforms, and I was almost out of coffee. Also, I stubbed my toe on the kitchen table. All of it was annoying, for sure, but still better than being arrested for murder or waking up in jail.

I decided to pluck my eyebrows while the uniforms were tumbling in the dryer. One of the hairs was suspiciously light. I yanked it out and examined it. Was it gray?

I put on extra makeup, and when I thought I could sound calm, I called my co-boss.

"Sam," I said, when he answered the phone. "I can’t remember when I need to be there."