Dead Ever After

bar, the working day proceeded in a strangely normal rhythm. It can be hard to recall that not everyone knows all the big events that occur in the supe world, even when those events take place right under the noses of the general human populace. And even if every human soul in the bar knew, they might not care very much.
    The big topic of bar gossip was Halleigh Bellefleur fainting at the Rotary Club when she’d stood up to go to the bathroom. Since she was seven months pregnant, everyone was concerned. Terry, her husband’s cousin, came in to get some fried pickles, and he was able to reassure us that Halleigh was fine, that Andy had taken her right in to her doctor. According to Terry, the doctor had told Andy and Halleigh that the baby had been pressing against something, and when the baby shifted, Halleigh’s blood pressure had, too. Or something like that.
    The lunch rush was moderate, which made sense since the Rotary was meeting at the Sizzler Steak House. When we were down to a light sprinkle of customers, I turned my tables over to An while I ran to the post office to pick up the bar mail. I was horrified to see how much had accumulated in the Merlotte’s box. Sam’s recovery took on a new urgency.
    I brought the mail back to the bar and settled in Sam’s office to go through it. Sure, I’d been working at Merlotte’s for five years. I’d paid attention, and I knew a lot about how the business was run. Now I could write checks and sign them, but there were decisions that had to be made. Our cable contract for the bar was up for renewal, and Sam had talked about switching providers. Two charity fund-raisers had asked for expensive liquor to auction off. Five local charities just flat-out asked for money.
    Most startling of all, we’d gotten a letter from a Clarice lawyer, a guy new to the area. He wanted to know if we were going to pay for the emergency room visit of Jane Clementine Bodehouse. The lawyer gently threatened to sue Merlotte’s for Jane’s mental and physical suffering if we didn’t cough up. I looked at the figure at the bottom of a copy of Jane’s bill. Damn. Jane had ridden in the ambulance and had an X-ray. She’d also required some stitches, which might as well have been of spun gold thread.
    “Shepherd of Judea,” I muttered. I reread the letter.
    When Merlotte’s had been firebombed the previous May, Jane, one of our alcoholic customers, had been cut by flying glass. She’d been treated by the ambulance drivers, who’d taken her to the emergency room to be checked over. She’d had a few stitches. She’d been fine . . . drunk, but fine. All her injuries had been minor. Jane had been reminiscing about that night in the past week or two, recalling her own bravery and how good that had made her feel. Now she was sending us a huge bill and threatening to sue?
    I scowled. This was way beyond Jane’s thinking capacity. I was willing to bet this new lawyer was trying to drum up some business. I figured he’d called Marvin, told him that his mom was due some money to compensate for all her suffering. Marvin, who was sick to death of hauling Jane away from Merlotte’s, must have been very open to the notion of getting some money back from Merlotte’s, after his mom had poured so much into it.
    A knock at the door put an end to my speculations. I swung around in Sam’s swivel chair to see someone I’d never expected to see again. For a second, I thought I’d pass out, like Halleigh Bellefleur at the Rotary Club.
    “Arlene,” I said, and got stuck. That was all I could manage. My former coworker—my former good friend—seemed to be waiting for me to say something more. Finally, I thought of adding, “When did you get out?”
    This moment was not only awkward in the extreme but completely unnerving. The last time I’d seen Arlene Fowler (aside from in a courtroom), she had been part of a conspiracy to murder me in a particularly horrible way. People had gotten shot that day. Some had died. Some had been wounded. Some of those had recovered in jail.
    Oddly enough, considering I was facing a conspirator in my murder, I was not afraid of her.
    All I could think about was how much Arlene had changed. She’d been a curvy woman a few months ago. Now she was thin. Her hair was still defiantly red, but it was shorter and drier, lank and lifeless. The wrinkles around her eyes and mouth were cruelly evident in the overhead light. Arlene’s time in jail hadn’t been that