From Dead to Worse

promise to take the punishment if Jason misbehaved, just as her uncle Calvin had promised the same on Crystal’s behalf. I’d been pretty damn rash to make that promise.
    When I carried their plates to their table, I saw that the two were in the jaw-clenching, looking-anywhere-but-at-each-other stage of quarreling. I put the plates down carefully, got them a bottle of Heinz ketchup, and skedaddled. I’d interfered enough by buying Crystal lunch.
    There was a person involved in this I could approach, and I promised myself then and there that I would. All my anger and unhappiness focused on Tanya Grissom. I really wanted to do something awful to that woman. What the hell was she hanging around for, sniffing around Sam? What was her goal in drawing Crystal into this spending spiral? (And I didn’t think for a second it was by chance that Tanya’s newest big buddy was my sister-in-law.) Was Tanya trying to irritate me to death? It was like having a horsefly buzzing around and lighting occasionally ... but never quite close enough to swat. While I went about my job on autopilot, I pondered what I could do to get her out of my orbit. For the first time in my life, I wondered if I could forcibly pin another person down to read her mind. It wouldn’t be so easy, since Tanya was a wereanimal, but I would find out what was driving her. And I had the conviction that information would save me a lot of heartache ... a lot.
    While I plotted and schemed and fumed, Crystal and Jason silently ate their food, and Jason pointedly paid his own bill, while I took care of Crystal’s. They left, and I wondered what their evening would be like. I was glad I wasn’t going to be a party to it.
    From behind the bar Sam had observed all this, and he asked me in a low voice, “What’s up with those two?”
    “They’re having the newlywed blues,” I said. “Severe adjustment problems.”
    He looked troubled. “Don’t let them drag you into it,” he said, and then looked like he regretted opening his mouth. “Sorry, don’t mean to give you unwanted advice,” he said.
    Something prickled at the corners of my eyes. Sam was giving me advice because he cared about me. In my overwrought state, that was cause for sentimental tears. “That’s okay, boss,” I said, trying to sound perky and carefree. I spun on my heel and went to patrol my tables. Sheriff Bud Dearborn was sitting in my section, which was unusual. Normally he’d pick a seat somewhere else if he knew I was working. Bud had a basket of onion rings in front of him, liberally doused with ketchup, and he was reading a Shreveport paper. The lead story was POLICE SEARCH FOR SIX, and I stopped to ask Bud if I could have his paper when he was through with it.
    He looked at me suspiciously. His little eyes in his mashed-in face scanned me as if he suspected he’d find a bloody cleaver hanging from my belt. “Sure, Sookie,” he said after a long moment. “You got any of these missing people stowed away at your house?”
    I beamed at him, anxiety transforming my smile into the bright grin of someone who wasn’t all there mentally. “No, Bud, I just want to find out what’s going on in the world. I’m behind on the news.”
    Bud said, “I’ll leave it on the table,” and he began reading again. I think he would have pinned Jimmy Hoffa on me if he could have figured a way to make it stick. Not that he necessarily thought I was a murderer, but he thought I was fishy and maybe involved in things that he didn’t want happening in his parish. Bud Dearborn and Alcee Beck had that conviction in common, especially since the death of the man in the library. Luckily for me, the man had turned out to have a record as long as my arm; and not only a record, but one for violent crimes. Though Alcee knew I’d acted in self-defense, he’d never trust me . . . and neither would Bud Dearborn.
    When Bud had finished his beer and his onion rings and departed to rain terror on the evildoers of Renard Parish, I took his paper over to the bar and read the story with Sam looking over my shoulder. I had deliberately stayed away from the news after the bloodbath at the empty office park. I’d been sure the Were community couldn’t cover up something so big; all they could do was muddy the trail the police would surely be following. That proved to be the case.
    After more than twenty-four hours, police remain baffled in their search for six missing Shreveport citizens. Hampering them is