Living Dead in Dallas (Sookie Stackhouse #2)(2)
Author: Charlaine Harris

At some point between eight o’clock, when Andy had arrived at Merlotte’s, and ten the next morning, when I arrived to help open the bar, Andy’s car acquired a new passenger.

This one would cause considerable embarrassment for the policeman.

This one was dead.

I shouldn’t have been there at all. I’d worked the late shift the night before, and I should’ve worked the late shift again that night. But Bill had asked me if I could switch with one of my coworkers, because he needed me to accompany him to Shreveport, and Sam hadn’t objected. I’d asked my friend Arlene if she’d work my shift. She was due a day off, but she always wanted to earn the better tips we got at night, and she agreed to come in at five that afternoon.

By all rights, Andy should’ve collected his car that morning, but he’d been too hung over to fool with getting Portia to run him over to Merlotte’s, which was out of the way to the police station. She’d told him she would pick him up at work at noon, and they’d eat lunch at the bar. Then he could retrieve his car.

So the Buick, with its silent passenger, waited for discovery far longer than it should have.

I’d gotten about six hours’ sleep the night before, so I was feeling pretty good. Dating a vampire can be hard on your equilibrium if you’re truly a daytime person, like me. I’d helped close the bar, and left for home with Bill by one o’clock. We’d gotten in Bill’s hot tub together, then done other things, but I’d gotten to bed by a little after two, and I didn’t get up until almost nine. Bill had long been in the ground by then.

I drank lots of water and orange juice and took a multivitamin and iron supplement for breakfast, which was my regimen since Bill had come into my life and brought (along with love, adventure, and excitement) the constant threat of anemia. The weather was getting cooler, thank God, and I sat on Bill’s front porch wearing a cardigan and the black slacks we wore to work at Merlotte’s when it was too cool for shorts. My white golf shirt had MERLOTTE’S BAR embroidered on the left breast.

As I skimmed the morning paper, with one part of my mind I was recording the fact that the grass was definitely not growing as fast. Some of the leaves appeared to be beginning to turn. The high school football stadium might be just about tolerable this coming Friday night.

The summer just hates to let go in Louisiana, even northern Louisiana. Fall begins in a very halfhearted way, as though it might quit at any minute and revert to the stifling heat of July. But I was on the alert, and I could spot traces of fall this morning. Fall and winter meant longer nights, more time with Bill, more hours of sleep.

So I was cheerful when I went to work. When I saw the Buick sitting all by its lonesome in front of the bar, I remembered Andy’s surprising binge the night before. I have to confess, I smiled when I thought of how he’d be feeling today. Just as I was about to drive around in back and park with the other employees, I noticed that Andy’s rear passenger door was open just a little bit. That would make his dome light stay on, surely? And his battery would run down. And he’d be angry, and have to come in the bar to call the tow truck, or ask someone to jump him… so I put my car in park and slid out, leaving it running. That turned out to be an optimistic error.

I shoved the door to, but it would only give an inch. So I pressed my body to it, thinking it would latch and I could be on my way. Again, the door would not click shut. Impatiently, I yanked it all the way open to find out what was in the way. A wave of smell gusted out into the parking lot, a dreadful smell. Dismay clutched at my throat, because the smell was not unknown to me. I peered into the backseat of the car, my hand covering my mouth, though that hardly helped with the smell.

"Oh, man," I whispered. "Oh, shit." Lafayette, the cook for one shift at Merlotte’s, had been shoved into the backseat. He was naked. It was Lafayette’s thin brown foot, its toenails painted a deep crimson, that had kept the door from shutting, and it was Lafayette’s corpse that smelled to high heaven.

I backed away hastily, then scrambled into my car and drove around back behind the bar, blowing my horn. Sam came running out of the employee door, an apron tied around his waist. I turned off my car and was out of it so quick I hardly realized I’d done it, and I wrapped myself around Sam like a static-filled sock.

"What is it?" Sam’s voice said in my ear. I leaned back to look at him, not having to gaze up too much since Sam is a smallish man. His reddish gold hair was gleaming in the morning sun. He has true-blue eyes, and they were wide with apprehension.

"It’s Lafayette," I said, and began crying. That was ridiculous and silly and no help at all, but I couldn’t help it. "He’s dead, in Andy Bellefleur’s car."

Sam’s arms tightened behind my back and drew me into his body once more. "Sookie, I’m sorry you saw it," he said. "We’ll call the police. Poor Lafayette."

Being a cook at Merlotte’s does not exactly call for any extraordinary culinary skill, since Sam just offers a few sandwiches and fries, so there’s a high turnover. But Lafayette had lasted longer than most, to my surprise. Lafayette had been g*y, flamboyantly g*y, makeup-and-long-fingernails g*y. People in northern Louisiana are less tolerant of that than New Orleans people, and I expect Lafayette, a man of color, had had a doubly hard time of it. Despite – or because of – his difficulties, he was cheerful, entertainingly mischievous, clever, and actually a good cook. He had a special sauce he steeped hamburgers in, and people asked for Burgers Lafayette pretty regular.

"Did he have family here?" I asked Sam. We eased apart self-consciously and went into the building, to Sam’s office.

"He had a cousin," Sam said, as his fingers punched 9-1-1. "Please come to Merlotte’s on Hummingbird Road," he told the dispatcher. "There’s a dead man in a car here. Yes, in the parking lot, in the front of the place. Oh, and you might want to alert Andy Bellefleur. It’s his car."

I could hear the squawk on the other end of the line from where I stood.

Danielle Gray and Holly Cleary, the two waitresses on the morning shift, came through the back door laughing. Both divorced women in their mid-twenties, Danielle and Holly were lifelong friends who seemed to be quite happy working their jobs as long as they were together. Holly had a five-year-old son who was at kindergarten, and Danielle had a seven-year-old daughter and a boy too young for school, who stayed with Danielle’s mother while Danielle was at Merlotte’s. I would never be any closer to the two women – who, after all, were around my age – because they were careful to be sufficient unto themselves.

"What’s the matter?" Danielle asked when she saw my face. Her own, narrow and freckled, became instantly worried.