Dead Ever After (Sookie Stackhouse #13)(39)
Author: Charlaine Harris

I glimpsed the wedding dress in the back of my closet when I opened it to pull out something to wear for my fairly unwelcome guests. Every time I saw the flounced skirt, I was reminded just how different I was from my mother; but every time, I wished I’d gotten to know her as an adult.

I shook myself and pulled out a T-shirt and jeans. I didn’t fool with makeup, and my hair was still damp when the two men knocked at my back door. Bill had seen me in every stage of being dressed or undressed that was possible, and I didn’t care what Harp Powell thought.

The reporter practically bolted into my kitchen. He looked agitated.

"Did you see that?" he asked me.

"What? Hello, by the way. ‘Thanks, Ms. Stackhouse, for inviting me into your home at the end of a long, traumatic day.’ " But he didn’t get my sarcasm, though it was as wide as the river Jordan.

"We got stopped in the woods by a woman vampire," he said excitedly. "She was beautiful! And she wanted to know what we were doing going to your house and if we were armed. It was like going through security at the airport."

Wow. That was great. Karin was on duty in my woods! I did have security, and not only the magical kind. I had a real nighttime-patrol vampire.

"She’s a friend of a friend," I said, smiling. Bill smiled back. He was looking spiffy tonight in dress slacks and a long-sleeved plaid cotton shirt, crisply ironed. Had he done the ironing? More likely, he’d gotten Danny to take all his shirts and slacks to a laundry. In sad contrast, Harp Powell was wearing khaki shorts and an ancient button-down shirt.

I had to offer my visitors a drink. Harp admitted he’d like a glass of water, and Bill accepted a bottle of TrueBlood. I stifled yet another sigh and brought them their beverages, Harp’s glass tinkling with ice and Bill’s bottle warm.

I should have also offered some small talk to cover the moment, but I was all out of chitchat. I sat with my hands folded on my knee, my legs crossed, and waited while they took their first sips and shifted into comfortable positions on the sofa.

"I called you Sunday night," Bill said, opening the conversational envelope, "but you must have been out."

He meant it as a transition remark, but I had a grim little frisson.

"Ah, no," I said, giving him a significant look.

He stared at me. Bill can really stare.

"You know where I was Sunday night," I said, trying to be discreet.

"No, I don’t."

Dammit. Why didn’t Danny gossip more? "I was in jail," I said. "For killing Arlene."

You would have thought I’d dropped my drawers and bent over, their expressions were so shocked. In an unworthy way, it was pretty funny. "I didn’t do it," I said, seeing they’d misunderstood me. "I’m just accused of it."

Harp used his napkin to pat his mustache, which was kind of wet now, after the drink of water. He needed a trim. "I’d love to know more about that, frankly," he said. And he meant that down to his bones.

"You’re not teaching anymore?" I said. After the last time I’d met Harp, I’d Googled him. Bill had told me that Harp had been teaching at a community college and had had a few books published by a university press, historical novels of regional interest. More recently, Harp had been editing vampire reminiscences, with emphasis on their historical value.

"No, I’m writing full-time now." He smiled at me. "I cast my fate to the wind."

"You got fired," I said.

He looked taken aback, but not as taken aback as Bill. Yeah, I didn’t think Bill had known that.

Harp said, "Yes, they said it was my interest in writing the books about vampires’ personal histories that was taking too much of my time and my concentration, but I suspect it was because I became friends with a vampire or two." Trying to appeal to my love of vampires, I guess. "Last semester, I was teaching a night class in journalism at the Clarice Community College, and I got my undead friends to visit. The faculty complained to my boss, but the students were fascinated."

"Which would pertain to writing newspaper articles – how?"

"Which would give my students a richer background to draw from when they write. To give them a broader knowledge of the world, color their emotional palette."

"You’re hooked on vamps." I rolled my eyes at Bill. "You’re a literary fangbanger." It was all in Harp’s head for me to see: the craving, the fascination, the sheer pleasure he took in being with Bill tonight. Even I was interesting to him, simply because he’d figured from my history that I’d had sex with vampires. He’d also gotten the impression that I was some kind of supernatural oddity in my own right. He wasn’t sure how I was different from other people, but he knew I was. I cocked my head, examining his thoughts. He was a little different himself. Maybe a tiny drop of fae blood? Or demon?

I reached over and took his hand, and he looked at me with eyes as big as saucers while I rummaged around in his head. I didn’t find anything in there that was morally gross or salacious. I would do this as a favor to Bill.

"All right," I said, dropping his hand. "What are you here for, Mr. Writer?"

"What did you just do?" he asked, both excited and suspicious.

"I just decided to talk to you about whatever," I said. "So talk. What do you want to know?"

"What happened to Kym Rowe? What’s your perspective?"

I knew the truth about what had happened to Kym Rowe, and I’d seen Kym’s murderer beheaded.

"My perspective is that Kym Rowe was a desperate young woman without many morals. She was also hard up financially. From what I understand," I said cautiously, "someone hired her to seduce Eric Northman, and the same person killed her in Eric’s front yard. I understand that the murderer confessed to the police and then left the country. Kym Rowe’s death seems sad and meaningless to me."

I couldn’t understand what Bill was getting out of hanging around with this guy. I suspected Bill’s reverence for the written word had blinded him to Harp’s inquisitive and intrusive habits. When Bill had grown up, books were fairly rare and precious. Or did Bill just need a friend so badly he was willing to make one of Harp Powell? I would have liked to check out Harp’s neck for fang marks, but with his collar that was impossible. Dammit.

"That’s the official story," Harp said, knocking back another swallow of water. "But I understand that you know more."

"Who might have told you that?" I looked at Bill. He gave a tiny shake of the head to indicate his innocence. I said, "If you think you will get another story, a different one, from me . . . you’re absolutely wrong."