Dead Ever After (Sookie Stackhouse #13)(55)
Author: Charlaine Harris

Though I knew I was being a bad hostess, I checked my cell phone for messages before I went out to the kitchen. I had one, a voice message from Bill.

"I called Eric and told him I had the kings friend at my house," he said. "Eric asked what had happened, and I told him about the witches’ circle. I told him that you had many friends staying with you and they were prepared to defend you. He asked if Sam Merlotte was among them, and when I said I hadn’t seen him, he laughed. He told me he would tell the king where Horst was. Afterward, Felipe sent his woman, Angie, to collect Horst, who was only beginning to recover consciousness by the time she got here. Angie seemed quite angry at Horst, so I suspect he was on an unauthorized mission. Your witch friends did a good job." Then he hung up. Older vampires are not into phone etiquette.

It wasn’t pretty, the picture of Eric laughing at Sam’s absence. It made me think furiously.

"Sookie, do you have any more milk?" Barry called. Of course, he would know that I was up.

"I’m coming," I yelled back, and pulled on my clothes.

The needs of the world went on, no matter how many crises erupted. "All God’s children got to eat," I said, and found another quart of milk at the back of the top shelf and handed it to Barry. Then I poured myself a bowl of cereal.

Bob said, "The psychic’s going to be here any minute." He was not trying to sound like he was telling me to hurry up, but it was a timely reminder. I was horrified when I looked at the clock.

Everyone but me had already eaten, rinsed out the dishes, and stacked them by the sink. I should have felt embarrassed, but instead I was simply relieved.

Just after I brushed my teeth, an ancient pickup truck rumbled into my front parking area. Its motor cut with an ominous rattle. A short, stocky woman slid out of the high cab to land on the gravel. She was wearing a cowboy hat decorated with the tip portion of a peacock feather. Her dry brown hair brushed her shoulders and almost matched her skin, as tan and weathered as an old saddle. Delphine Oubre was nothing like I’d imagined. From her battered boots and jeans to her sleeveless blue blouse, she looked like she’d be more at home at a country and western bar like Stompin’ Sally’s than coming to the house of a telepath to practice her touch psychic-ness.

"Paranormal psychometry," Barry corrected.

I raised an eyebrow.

"It was just called psychometry originally," he said, "but in the past few years ‘real scientists’ " – he made the imaginary quote marks – "have started using that term to designate . . . well, measuring psychological traits."

That didn’t sound much like a science to me.

"Me, either," he confessed. But I read up on this online last night to get ready for her visit. In case Bob is mistaken about her talent.

Good move, I told him, watching Delphine Oubre come up the back steps.

"You don’t need to tell her your names," Bob said hastily. "Just mine, that’s all she needs."

Up close, Delphine seemed to be about forty years old. She wore no jewelry or makeup; her only decoration was the feather in her hat. Her cowboy boots were ancient and venerable. She looked like she could pound in nails with her bare hands.

Bob introduced himself to Delphine, and though (following his orders) I didn’t tell her my name, I offered Delphine a drink (she wanted water from the tap, no ice). She pulled out a kitchen chair and took a seat. When I put the glass in front of her, she took a big swallow. "Well?" she said impatiently.

Diantha offered her the scarf, still in its plastic bag. I hadn’t seen it, hadn’t wanted to see it. The scarf had been cut off Arlene, so the knot was intact. It was twisted into a thin rope, and it was stained.

"Dead woman’s scarf," Delphine said, though not as if that worried her.

"No, it’s my scarf," I said. "But I want to know how come a dead woman was wearing it. Do you have a problem with holding something that killed someone?"

I wanted to be sure Ms. Oubre wouldn’t start screaming when she touched the fabric. Though judging by what I’d seen of her so far, that didn’t seem likely.

"It ain’t the scarf that killed her, but the hands that tightened it," she said practically. "Show me your money and hand it over. I got cows to feed back home."

Money? Bob had called her. Since he’d done the arranging, I’d forgotten to ask him what the payment should be. Naturally, she wouldn’t take a check.

"Four hundred," Bob murmured, and I could have slapped him for neglecting to tell me this. Of course, I should have asked. As I tried to remember what was in my purse, my heart sank. I’d have to pass Delphine’s cowboy hat to come up with the cash on the spot.

Mr. Cataliades’s hand appeared in front of Delphine with four hundred-dollar bills in it. She took the money without comment, stuffing it in her chest pocket. I nodded my thanks to my demon benefactor. He nodded back in a negligent way. "I’ll add it to my bill," he murmured.

Now that that was settled, we all watched the touch psychic with anxious interest. Without further ado, Delphine Oubre opened the plastic bag and extracted the scarf. The smell was pretty bad, and Amelia immediately went to a window and opened it.

If I’d thought twice, I’d have done this outside, no matter how hot it was.

The psychic’s eyes were closed, and she held the scarf loosely at first. As it revealed things to her, her grip tightened, until she was clenching the material tightly. Her face turned slightly from side to side as if she sought a better view; the effect was indescribably eerie. And believe me, seeing inside her head was eerie, too.

"I’ve killed women," she said suddenly, in a voice that was not her own. I jumped, and I wasn’t the only one. We all took a step back from Delphine Oubre.

"I’ve killed whores," she said gloatingly. "This one’s close enough. She’s so scared. That makes it sweeter."

We were frozen, like we’d drawn a collective breath and were holding it.

"My friend there," said Oubre, still in the slightly accented voice, "he’s squeamish, just a bit. But it’s his choice, you know?"

I almost recognized that voice. I associated it with . . . trouble. Disaster.

I turned to look at Barry, at the same moment he took my hand in his.

"Johan Glassport," I whispered.

My comfort level had just shot out of the uneasy area and into the blood-pressure-medication zone. Barry had mentioned seeing Glassport in New Orleans, and Quinn had seen him at an area motel; but I couldn’t figure out why. Glassport had no reason to dislike me that I knew of, but I didn’t believe that reasons were a big part of his operating system when he wasn’t on the clock as a lawyer.