From Dead to Worse

introduced him to the two witches as “Dawson” because I didn’t know his first name. Dawson was a supersized man. I’d bet you could crack pecans on his biceps. He had dark brown hair beginning to show just a little gray, and a neatly trimmed mustache. I’d known who he was all my life, but I’d never known him well. Dawson was probably seven or eight years older than me, and he’d married early. And divorced early, too. His son, who lived with the mother, was quite a football player for Clarice High School. Dawson looked tougher than any guy I’d ever met. I don’t know if it was the very dark eyes, or the grim face, or simply the size of him.
    There was crime scene tape across the apartment doorway. My eyes welled up when I saw it. Maria-Star had died violently in this space only hours before. Dawson produced a set of keys (Alcide’s?) and unlocked the door, and we ducked under the tape to enter.
    And we all stood frozen in silence, appalled at the state of the little living room. My way was blocked by an overturned occasional table with a big gash marring the wood. My eyes flickered over the irregular dark stains on the walls until my brain told me the stains were blood.
    The smell was faint but unpleasant. I began to breathe shallowly so I wouldn’t get sick.
    “Now, what do you want us to do?” Octavia asked.
    “I thought you’d do an ectoplasmic reconstruction, like Amelia did before,” I said.
    “Amelia did an ectoplasmic reconstruction?” Octavia had dropped the haughty tone and sounded genuinely surprised and admiring. “I’ve never seen one.”
    Amelia nodded modestly. “With Terry and Bob and Patsy,” she said. “It worked great. We had a big area to cover.”
    “Then I’m sure we can do one here,” Octavia said. She looked interested and excited. It was like her face had woken up. I realized that what I’d seen before had been her depressed face. And I was getting enough from her head (now that she wasn’t concentrating on keeping me out) to let me know that Octavia had spent a month after Katrina wondering where her next meal would come from, where she’d lay her head from night to night. Now she lived with family, though I didn’t get a clean picture.
    “I brought the stuff with me,” Amelia said. Her brain was radiating pride and relief. She might yet get out from under the Bob contretemps without paying a huge price.
    Dawson stood leaning against the wall, listening with apparent interest. Since he was a Were, it was hard to read his thoughts, but he was definitely relaxed.
    I envied him. It wasn’t possible for me to be at ease in this terrible little apartment, which almost echoed with the violence done in its walls. I was scared to sit on the love seat or the armchair, both upholstered in blue and white checks. The carpet was a darker blue, and the paint was white. Everything matched. The apartment was a little dull for my taste. But it had been neat and clean and carefully arranged, and less than twenty-four hours ago it had been a home.
    I could see through to the bedroom, where the covers were thrown back. This was the only sign of disorder in the bedroom or the kitchen. The living room had been the center of the violence.
    For lack of a better place to park myself, I went to lean against the bare wall beside Dawson.
    I didn’t think the motorcycle repairman and I had ever had a long conversation, though he’d gotten shot in my defense a few months before. I’d heard that the law (in this case, Andy Bellefleur and his fellow detective Alcee Beck) suspected more took place at Dawson’s shop than motorcycle repairs, but they’d never caught Dawson doing anything illegal. Dawson also hired out as a bodyguard from time to time, or maybe he volunteered his services. He was certainly suited to the job.
    “Were you friends?” Dawson rumbled, nodding his head at the bloodiest spot on the floor, the spot where Maria-Star had died.
    “We were more like friendly acquaintances,” I said, not wanting to claim more grief than my due. “I saw her at a wedding a couple of nights ago.” I started to say she’d been fine then, but that would have been stupid. You don’t sicken before you’re murdered.
    “When was the last time anyone talked to Maria-Star?” Amelia asked Dawson. “I need to establish some time limits.”
    “Eleven last night,” he said. “Phone call from Alcide. He was out of town, with witnesses. Neighbor heard a big to-do from in here about