Club Dead

I hesitated, hating to bring a name back up. “But what about Debbie? She’s . . .” I stopped myself from saying “a real bitch,” because only Alcide should call her that. “She was angry with you for having a date,” I said mildly. “Maybe she would put Jerry Falcon in your closet to cause you trouble?”
    “Debbie’s mean and she can cause trouble, but she’s never killed anyone,” Alcide said. “She doesn’t have the, the . . . grit for it, the sand. The will to kill.”
    Okay. Just call me Sandy.
    Alcide must have read my dismay on my face. “Hey, I’m a Were,” he said, shrugging. “I’d do it if I had to. Especially at the right time of the moon.”
    “So maybe a fellow pack member did him in, for reasons we don’t know, and decided to lay the blame on you?” Another possible scenario.
    “That doesn’t feel right. Another Were would have—well, the body would’ve looked different.” Alcide said, trying to spare my finer feelings. He meant the body would have been ripped to shreds. “And I think I would’ve smelled another Were on him. Not that I got that close.”
    We just didn’t have any other ideas, though if I’d tape-recorded that conversation and played it back, I would have thought of another possible culprit easily enough.
    Alcide said he had to get back to Shreveport, and I lifted my legs for him to rise. He got up, but went down on one knee by the head of the couch to tell me good-bye. I said the polite things, how nice it had been of him to give me a place to stay, how much I’d enjoyed meeting his sister, how much fun it had been to hide a body with him. No, I didn’t really say that, but it crossed my mind, as I was being Gran’s courteous product.
    “I’m glad I met you,” he said. He was closer to me than I’d thought, and he gave me a peck on the lips in farewell. But after the peck, which was okay, he returned for a longer good-bye. His lips felt so warm; and after a second, his tongue felt even warmer. His head turned slightly to get a better angle, and then he went at it again. His right hand hovered above me, trying to find a place to settle that wouldn’t hurt me. Finally he covered my left hand with his. Oh boy, this was good. But only my mouth and my lower pelvis were happy. The rest of me hurt. His hand slid, in a questioning sort of way, up to my breast, and I gave a sharp gasp.
    “Oh, God, I hurt you!” he said. His lips looked very full and red after the long kiss, and his eyes were brilliant.
    I felt obliged to apologize. “I’m just so sore,” I said.
    “What did they do to you?” he asked. “Not just a few slaps across the face?”
    He had imagined my swollen face was my most serious problem.
    “I wish that had been it,” I said, trying to smile.
    He truly looked stricken. “And here I am, making a pass at you.”
    “Well, I didn’t push you away,” I said mildly. (I was too sore to push.) “And I didn’t say, ‘No, sir, how dare you force your attentions on me!’ ”
    Alcide looked somewhat startled. “I’ll come back by soon,” he promised. “If you need anything, you call me.” He fished a card out of his pocket and laid it on the table by the couch. “This has got my work number on it, and I’m writing my cell number on the back, and my home number. Give me yours.” Obediently, I recited the numbers to him, and he wrote them down in, no kidding, a little black book. I didn’t have the energy to make a joke.
    When he was gone, the house felt extra empty. He was so big and so energetic—so alive—he filled large spaces with his personality and presence.
    It was a day for me to sigh.
    Having talked to Jason at Merlotte’s, Arlene came by at half past five. She surveyed me, looked as if she were suppressing a lot of comments she really wanted to make, and heated me up some Campbell’s. I let it cool before I ate it very carefully and slowly, and felt the better for it. She put the dishes in the dishwasher, and asked me if I needed any other help. I thought of her children waiting for her at home, and I said I was just fine. It did me good to see Arlene, and to know she was struggling with herself about speaking out of turn made me feel even better.
    Physically, I was feeling more and more stiff. I made myself get up and walk a little (though it looked more like a hobble), but as my bruises became fully developed and the house grew colder, I began to feel much worse. This was when living alone really got to you,