Dead Ever After: A True Blood Novel

bullshit,” I muttered dismally.
    Sam put his hand on my shoulder. It was almost too hot for even that slight contact, but I could tell he was trying to let me know he was ready to back me up. “Where are you two meeting?”
    “Fangtasia or Eric’s house, I suppose. He’ll let me know.”
    “The offer stands.”
    “Thanks.” I smiled at him, but it was a weak attempt. “But I don’t want anyone more agitated than they’re gonna be.” Meaning Eric.
    “Then call me when you get home?”
    “I can do that. Might be pretty late.”
    “That doesn’t matter.”
    Sam had always been my friend, though we’d had our ups and our downs and our arguments. It would be insulting to tell him that he didn’t owe me anything for bringing him back to life. He knew that.
    “I woke up different,” Sam said suddenly. He’d been thinking during the little pause, too.
    “How?”
    “I’m not sure, yet. But I’m tired of . . .” His voice trailed off.
    “Of what?”
    “Of living my life like there’ll be plenty of tomorrows so what I do today doesn’t matter.”
    “You think something’s going to happen to you?”
    “No, not exactly,” he said. “I’m afraid nothing will happen to me. When I work it out, I’ll let you know.” He smiled at me; it was a rueful smile, but it had warmth.
    “Okay,” I said. I made myself smile back. “You do that.”
    And we returned to watching the police do their thing, each sunk in our own thoughts. I hope Sam’s were happier than mine. I didn’t see how the day could get much crappier. But it could.
    ELSEWHERE
that night
    “I think we can call him now,” the medium man said, and took out his cell phone. “You take care of the throwaway.”
    The tall man extracted a cheap cell phone from his pocket. He stomped on it a few times, enjoying the crushing of the glass and metal. He picked up the carcass of the telephone and dropped it into a deep puddle. The short driveway from the road to the front of the trailer was dimpled with such puddles. Anyone driving in would be sure to press the phone into the mud.
    The medium man would have preferred some method of disposal that completely obliterated the little collection of circuitry and metal, but that would do. He was frowning when the call he placed went through.
    “Yes?” said a silky voice.
    “It’s done. The body’s found, the scarf was on it, I retrieved the magic coin, and I’ve planted the charm in the detective’s car.”
    “Call me again when it happens,” said the voice. “I want to enjoy it.”
    “Then we’re through with this project,” the medium man said, and he might have been a little hopeful that was so. “And the money will be in our accounts. It’s been a pleasure working with you.” His voice was quite empty of sincerity.
    “No,” said the voice on the other end. It held such promise; you just knew that whoever could speak that way must be beautiful. The medium man, who’d actually met the owner of the voice, shuddered. “No,” the voice repeated. “Not quite through.”

Chapter 7
    By the time I was able to leave work, I felt like I’d been steamed and left out on the counter.
    We had gotten to open at three on the dot, to my surprise. By then rumors and facts had spread all over Bon Temps. A big crowd showed up at Merlotte’s just pining to get the lowdown on what had actually happened. What with questions from every customer and the endless speculations of Andrea Norr, I was fixing to start screaming.
    “So who could have put her in the Dumpster, and how’d they get her in there?” An said for the fiftieth time. “Antoine puts the kitchen trash in there. That’s disgusting.”
    “It sure is,” I said, just managing not to bite her head off. “That’s why we’re not going to talk about it.”
    “Okay! Okay! I get your drift, Sookie. Mum’s the word. At least I’m telling everyone that you didn’t do it, sweetie.” And she went right back to talking. There was no doubt that gossipy An had the mysterious “it.” Following her movements around the bar was like watching an all-male rendition of the wave.
    It was nice to know that An was telling everyone I wasn’t guilty, but it was depressing to think that anyone would have assumed I was. An’s reasoning echoed that of the detectives. It seemed impossible that a lone woman could lift Arlene, literally a dead weight, up into the mouth of the Dumpster.
    In fact, when I tried to picture the insertion, the only way