Definitely Dead

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    “That’ll do,” Alfred said, and began snapping away.
    Claude put his hand on my bare thigh when he could feel my muscles begin to tremble from the effort of holding the position. Once again, a man had a hold of my leg. Claude gripped my thigh enough to give it some support. That helped considerably, but it wasn’t a bit erotic.
    “Now some bed shots,” Al said, just when I’d decided I couldn’t stand it any more.
    “No,” Claude and I said in chorus.
    “But that’s part of the package,” Al said. “You don’t need to undress, you know. I don’t do that kind of picture. My wife would kill me. You just lie down on the bed like you are. Claude hikes up on one elbow and looks down at you, Miss Stackhouse.”
    “No,” I said firmly. “Take some pictures of him standing by himself in the water. That would be better.” There was a fake pond over in the corner, and shots of Claude, apparently naked, dripping water over his bare chest, would be extremely appealing (to any woman who hadn’t actually met him).
    “How does that grab you, Claude?” Al asked.
    Claude’s narcissism chimed in. “I think that would be great, Al,” he said, trying not to sound too excited.
    I started for the changing room, eager to shed the costume and get back into my regular jeans. I glanced around for a clock. I was due at work at five-thirty, and I had to drive back to Bon Temps and grab my work uniform before I went to Merlotte’s.
    Claude called, “Thanks, Sookie.”
    “Sure, Claude. Good luck with the modeling contracts.” But he was already admiring himself in a mirror.
    Maria-Star saw me out. “Goodbye, Sookie. It was good to see you again.”
    “You, too,” I lied. Even through the reddish twisted passages of a Were mind, I could see that Maria-Star couldn’t understand why I would pass up Alcide. After all, the Were was handsome in a rugged way, an entertaining companion, and a hot-blooded male of the heterosexual persuasion. Also, he now owned his own surveying company and was a wealthy man in his own right.
    The answer popped into my head and I spoke before I thought. “Is anyone still looking for Debbie Pelt?” I asked, much the same way you poke a sore tooth. Debbie had been Alcide’s longtime on-again, off-again lover. She’d been a piece of work.
    “Not the same people,” Maria-Star said. Her expression darkened. Maria-Star didn’t like thinking about Debbie any more than I did, though doubtless for different reasons. “The detectives the Pelt family hired gave up, said they’d be fleecing the family if they’d kept on. That’s what I heard. The police didn’t exactly say it, but they’d reached a dead end, too. I’ve only met the Pelts once, when they came over to Shreveport right after Debbie disappeared. They’re a pretty savage couple.” I blinked. This was a fairly drastic statement, coming from a Were.
    “Sandra, their daughter, is the worst. She was nuts about Debbie, and for her sake they’re still consulting people, some way-out people. Myself, I think Debbie got abducted. Or maybe she killed herself. When Alcide abjured her, maybe she lost it big-time.”
    “Maybe,” I murmured, but without conviction.
    “He’s better off. I hope she stays missing,” Maria-Star said.
    My opinion had been the same, but unlike Maria-Star, I knew exactly what had happened to Debbie; that was the wedge that had pushed Alcide and me apart.
    “I hope he never sees her again,” Maria-Star said, her pretty face dark and showing a little bit of her own savage side.
    Alcide might be dating Maria-Star, but he hadn’t confided in her fully. Alcide knew for a fact that he would never see Debbie again. And that was my fault, okay?
    I’d shot her dead.
    I’d more or less made my peace with my act, but the stark fact of it kept popping back up. There’s no way you can kill someone and get to the other side of the experience unchanged. The consequences alter your life.
     
    Two priests walked into the bar.
    This sounds like the opening of a million jokes. But these priests didn’t have a kangaroo with them, and there was not a rabbi sitting at the bar, or a blonde, either. I’d seen plenty of blondes, one kangaroo in a zoo, no rabbis. However, I’d seen these two priests plenty of times before. They had a standing appointment to have dinner together every other week.
    Father Dan Riordan, clean shaven and ruddy, was the Catholic priest who came to the little Bon Temps church once a week