Deadlocked (Sookie Stackhouse #12)(67)
Author: Charlaine Harris

"Where’s JB?" I whispered.

"He went to get some more diapers," she whispered back.

"How’s the breastfeeding going?"

"I feel like Elsie the cow," she said. "I don’t know why I even button my blouse."

"Is it hard? To get them to nurse?"

"About as hard as getting a vampire to bite you," she said.

I grinned. It was nice to hear that Tara could joke about something that had once made her crazy.

"By the way," Tara said as I turned to go, "Is there something weird going on at Hooligans?"

"What do you mean?" I jerked around, very much on the alert.

"Maybe that answers my question," she said. "That was quite a reaction, Sookie."

I had no idea how to answer her. I said, "Has JB had any trouble there?"

"No, he loves everybody on the strip team," she said. "We finally had a good talk about it. You know, and I know, that he loves to be admired, bless his heart. And there’s a lot to admire about JB."

I nodded. He was lovely. Not bright; never that. But lovely.

"But he thinks there’s something wrong?"

"He’s noticed some strange things," she said carefully. "None of the other guys could ever meet him for lunch, and they could never tell him what their day job was, and they seemed to pretty much live at the club."

I didn’t know what to tell her. "I wonder how JB got hired," I said, to fill in until I could think of a good way to warn her off Hooligans. I was sure the du Rones still needed extra money, though the twins had been able to leave the hospital at the regular time.

"How he got hired? He’d heard about Ladies Only night from the women at the gym, and they all told him he was built well enough to perform," Tara said rather proudly. "So one day he went over to Hooligans on his lunch hour." One of the babies started fussing, and Tara darted into their tiny room to emerge with Sara. Or Robbie. "If one starts crying, the other one will," she whispered. She jiggled the baby gently, humming to the child. It was as if she’d been a mother for years, instead of a few days. When the little head rested on her chest, she murmured, "Anyway, your cousin Claude said since JB’d helped you recover from your ordeal-did he mean your car wreck?-that he’d give JB a job. Also …" She met my eyes briefly. "Remember, I met Claude when I was pregnant? He was the one who told me I’d have twins that day in the park? He told JB he understood a father has to provide for his children."

It hadn’t been a car wreck I needed to recover from, but torture, of course. JB had helped me with physical therapy for weeks; I did remember telling Claude about that. Ha! Claude’s kindness to JB was a good thing to hear, especially at this point in time. But I knew what my cousin really was, and I knew he was scheming some terrible thing.

I left the little house after running a finger over the soft, soft baby cheek. "You’re so lucky," I whispered to Tara.

"I tell myself that every day," she said. "Every day." In my friend’s head, I could see the kaleidoscope of miserable scenes that had composed her childhood: her alcoholic parents, the parade of drug users through her home, her own determination to rise above the shack, rise above the degradation and squalor. This small, neat house, these beautiful babies, a sober husband-this was heaven to Tara.

"Take care of yourself, Sookie," she said, looking at me with some anxiety. She hadn’t been my friend this long for nothing.

"You just watch out for those young’uns. Don’t you worry about me. I’m doing okay." I gave my friend the most convincing smile I could summon, and I let myself out of the house very quietly, easing the door shut.

I went to the drive-through at the bank to use the ATM, and then I drove to the newly opened law offices of Beth Osiecki and Jarrell Hilburn. There were those who would argue that Bon Temps was overburdened with lawyers, but all of them seemed to be busy and thriving, and since Sid Matt Lancaster, who’d had a huge practice, had recently passed away, all his clients needed new representation.

Why’d I picked the new kids on the block?

For that very reason: They were new, and I didn’t know them, and they didn’t know me. I wanted to start with a clean slate. I’d seen Hilburn before, for my transaction with Sam. Today I was seeing Osiecki, who specialized in estate planning. And since she was new, she’d agreed to see me on a Saturday.

A girl barely out of her teens was sitting at the receptionist’s desk in the tiny anteroom of the storefront office. Osiecki and Hilburn had rented the first floor of an old building right off the square. The electrical system would need overhauling, I was sure, but they’d painted and brought in good secondhand office furniture. Some potted plants made everything look a little nicer, and there wasn’t any canned music playing, which was a huge plus. The girl, who didn’t even have a name plaque, beamed at me and checked her appointment book, which had large white spaces.

"You must be Ms. Stackhouse," she said.

"Yes. I have an appointment with Ms. Osiecki?" I sounded out the name.

"Oh-seek-ee," she said very quietly, presumably so the owner of the name wouldn’t hear her correction.

I nodded, to show I’d gotten it now.

"I’ll see if she’s ready," the girl said, leaping to her feet and making her way to the little corridor leading to the rest of the space. There was a door on the left and a door on the right, and after that the area seemed to widen into a common space. I could glimpse a big table and a bookcase full of heavy books, the kind of books I would never pick up to read.

I heard a brisk knock and a murmur, and then the teenager was back. "Ms. Osiecki will see you now," she said, with an expansive sweep of her hand.

I went back to talk to Ms. Osiecki after taking a deep breath.

A woman of about thirty stood up from her broad desk. She had well-cut short red-streaked brown hair, blue eyes, and brown glasses. She was wearing a nice white blouse and a wildly flowered skirt and high-heeled sandals. She was smiling.

"I’m Beth Osiecki," she said, in case I’d gotten lost between the reception area and her office.

"Sookie Stackhouse," I said, shaking the outstretched hand.

She glanced down at the pad, and I could see she was going over the notes she’d scribbled the day before when I’d called her. She looked over at the big Scenic Louisiana poster by her desk. "Well," she said, shooting me a quizzical look. "It really is a special day for you, isn’t it? It’s your birthday, and you’re going to make your will."

I felt a little strange after I left the lawyers’ office. I guess there’s nothing to make you think about your own demise like making your will. It’s also a literally do-or-die moment. When your will is read, it will be the last time people will hear your voice: the last expression of your will and your wishes, the last statement from your heart. It had been a strangely revelatory hour.