Dead as a Doornail (Sookie Stackhouse #5)(39)
Author: Charlaine Harris

"Sookie, you asked me to keep you posted on the man who died here," Andy said.

Sure, but it had never occurred to me he’d actually do it. Andy did not have any very high opinion of me, though he’d always been a big fan of my rear end. It’s wonderful being telepathic, huh?

"He has no prior record," Andy said, looking down at the little notebook he’d produced. "He has no known association with the Fellowship of the Sun."

"But that doesn’t make sense," I said into the little silence that followed. "Why would he set the fire otherwise?"

"I was hoping you could tell me that," Andy said, his clear gray eyes meeting mine.

I’d had it with Andy, abruptly and finally. In our dealings over the years, he’d insulted me and wounded me, and now I’d encountered that last straw.

"Listen to me, Andy," I said, and I looked right back into his eyes. "I never did anything to you that I know of. I’ve never been arrested. I’ve never even jaywalked, or been late paying my taxes, or sold a drink to an underage teen. I’ve never even had a speeding ticket. Now someone tried to barbecue me inside my own home. Where do you get off, making me feel like I’ve done something wrong?" Other than shoot Debbie Pelt, a voice whispered in my head. It was the voice of my conscience.

"I don’t think there’s anything in this guy’s past that would indicate he’d do this to you."

"Fine! Then find out who did! Because someone burned my house, and it sure wasn’t me!" I was yelling when I got to the last part, partly to drown the voice. My only recourse was to turn and walk away, striding around the house until I was out of Andy’s sight. Terry gave me a sidelong look, but he didn’t stop swinging his sledgehammer.

After a minute, I heard someone picking his way through the debris behind me. "He’s gone," Alcide said, his deep voice just a tiny bit amused. "I guess you’re not interested in going any further with our conversation."

"You’re right," I said briefly.

"Then I’ll go back to Shreveport. Call me if you need me."

"Sure." I made myself be more polite. "Thanks for your offer of help."

" ‘Help’? I asked you to live with me!"

"Then thank you for asking me to live with you." I couldn’t help it if I didn’t sound completely sincere. I said the right words. Then my grandmother’s voice sounded in my head, telling me that I was acting like I was seven years old. I made myself turn around.

"I do appreciate your… affection," I said, looking up into Alcide’s face. Even this early in the spring, he had a tan line from wearing a hard hat. His olive complexion would be shades darker in a few weeks. "I do appreciate…" I trailed off, not sure how to put it. I appreciated his willingness to consider me as an eligible woman to mate with, which so many men didn’t, as well as his assumption that I would make a good mate and a good ally. This was as close as I could get to phrasing what I meant.

"But you’re not having any." The green eyes regarded me steadily.

"I’m not saying that." I drew a breath. "I’m saying now is not the time to work on a relationship with you." Though I wouldn’t mind jumping your bones, I added to myself wistfully.

But I wasn’t going to do that on a whim, and certainly not with a man like Alcide. The new Sookie, the rebound Sookie, wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice in a row. I was double rebounding. (If you rebound from the two men you’ve had so far, do you end up a virgin again? To what state are you rebounding?) Alcide gave me a hard hug and dropped a kiss on my cheek. He left while I was still mulling that over. Soon after Alcide left, Terry knocked off for the day. I changed from the jumpsuit into my work clothes. The afternoon had chilled, so I pulled on the jacket I’d borrowed from Jason’s closet. It smelled faintly of Jason.

I detoured on the way to work to drop off the pink and black suit at Tara’s house. Her car wasn’t there, so I figured she was still at the shop. I let myself in and went back to her bedroom to put the plastic bag in her closet. The house was dusky and deep shadowed. It was almost dark outside. Suddenly my nerves thrummed with alarm. I shouldn’t be here. I turned away from the closet and stared around the room. When my eyes got to the doorway, it was filled with a slim figure. I gasped before I could stop myself. Showing them you’re scared is like waving a red flag in front of a bull.

I couldn’t see Mickey’s face to read his expression, if he had any.

"Where did that new bartender at Merlotte’s come from?" he asked.

If I’d expected anything, it wasn’t that.

"When Sam got shot, we needed another bartender in a hurry. We borrowed him from Shreveport," I said. "From the vampire bar."

"Had he been there long?"

"No," I said, managing to feel surprised even through my creeping fear. "He hadn’t been there long at all."

Mickey nodded, as if that confirmed some conclusion he’d reached. "Get out of here," he said, his deep voice quite calm. "You’re a bad influence on Tara. She doesn’t need anything but me, until I’m tired of her. Don’t come back."

The only way out of the room was through the door he was filling. I didn’t trust myself to speak. I walked toward him as confidently as I could, and I wondered if he would move when I reached him. It felt like three hours later by the time I rounded Tara’s bed and eased my way around her dressing table. When I showed no sign of slowing down, the vampire stepped aside. I couldn’t stop myself from looking up at his face as I passed him, and he was showing fang. I shuddered. I felt so sick for Tara that I couldn’t stop myself. How had this happened to her?

When he saw my revulsion, he smiled.

I tucked the problem of Tara away in my heart to pull out later. Maybe I could think of something to do for her, but as long as she seemed willing to stay with this monstrous creature, I didn’t see what I could do to help.

Sweetie Des Arts was outside smoking a cigarette when I parked my car at the back of Merlotte’s. She 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.