Deadlocked: A Sookie Stackhouse Novel

any knife was pretty damn frightening.
    “Sookie,” he continued, “I came out here tonight to do you a favor. I don’t think you know that you have a valuable little item. Interest in this item is heating up, and word’s getting around. You might find it a tad dangerous to keep it in your house. I’ll be glad to put it in the safe at my office. I did some research on your behalf, and what you think may just be a pretty thing your grandma left in the desk is something a few people do want for their private collection.”
    Not only had he opened the secret compartment and glanced at the contents before he’d called me to come look, he’d at least scanned the letter. The letter my grandmother had written to me . Thank God he hadn’t had a chance to read it carefully. He was completely ignorant about me.
    Something inside me caught fire. I was mad. Really mad.
    “Come in,” I said calmly. “We’ll talk about it.”
    He was surprised, but relieved.
    I smiled at him.
    I turned and walked back to the kitchen. There were lots of weapons in the kitchen.
    Callaway followed me, his loafers making little thwacks on the boards of the floor.
    It would be very opportune if Jason arrived right now for his sweet potato casserole, or if Dermot came home for supper, but I wasn’t going to count on their help.
    “So you did open the bag? You looked at it?” I said over my shoulder. “I don’t know why Gran left me an old powder compact, but it is kind of pretty. Gran was sort of a crackpot; a sweet old lady, but real imaginative.”
    “So often our elderly relatives love things that don’t really have much intrinsic value,” the antiques dealer said. “In your case, your grandmother left you an item that is of interest only to a few specialized collectors.”
    “Really? What is it? She called it something crazy.” I was still leading the way. I smiled to myself. I was pretty sure it wasn’t a very pleasant smile.
    He didn’t hesitate. “It’s a turn-of-the-century Valentine’s Day present,” he said. “Made out of soapstone. If you can open it, there’s a little compartment for a lock of the hair of the person giving it.”
    “Really? I couldn’t open it. You know how?” I was sure that only the intention to use it could open the cluviel dor.
    “Yes, I’m pretty sure I can open it,” he said, and he believed that—but he’d never tried. He hadn’t had time that day, had had only a quick glance at the cluviel dor and at the letter. He assumed that he’d be able to open the round object because he’d never been thwarted when he’d tried to open similar antique items before.
    “That would be real interesting,” I said. “And how many people are gonna bid on this old thing? How much money you think I could make?”
    “At least two people are involved,” he said. “But that’s all you need, to make a little profit. Maybe you’d make as much as a thousand, though I have to take my cut.”
    “Why should I give you any? Why shouldn’t I contact them myself?”
    He sat at the kitchen table uninvited, while I went to the stove to check the sweet potatoes. They were done. All the other ingredients— butter, eggs, sugar, molasses, allspice, nutmeg, and vanilla—were arranged in a row on the counter, ready for me to measure. The oven had preheated.
    He was taken aback by my question, but he rallied. “Why, you don’t want to deal with these people, young lady. They’re pretty rough people. You want to let me do that. So it’s only fair that I get a little recompense for my trouble.”
    “What if I don’t want to let you ‘do that’?” I turned off the heat, but the water kept bubbling. With a slotted spoon, I scooped out the sweet potato chunks and put them in a bowl. Steam rose from them, making the kitchen even warmer, despite the air conditioner rumbling away. I was monitoring his thoughts closely, as I should have done the day he’d been here working.
    “Then I’ll just take it,” he said.
    I turned to face him. He had some Mace and a knife. I heard the front door open and shut, very quietly. Callaway didn’t hear it; he didn’t know this house like I did.
    “I won’t give it up,” I said flatly, my voice louder than it needed to be. “And you can’t find it.”
    “I’m an antiques dealer,” he said with absolute assurance. “I’m very good at finding old things.”
    I didn’t know if a friend had entered or another foe. Truth be told, I had little faith in the