"You know as well as I what he was telling you, Sookie," Karin said. "You don't need me to interpret, even assuming my father Eric wanted me to do that."
We kept silent for a moment, me still in the bed and her crouching a few feet away. I could hear the bugs outside when they resumed droning in unison. How'd they do that? I wondered, and realized I was still stunned with sleep and shock.
"Well," I said. "It's been fun, but I need to get some rest."
"How is this Sam doing? The one you returned from the dead?" Karin asked unexpectedly.
"Ahhh . . . well, he's having a little trouble adjusting."
"To what?"
"To being alive."
"He was hardly dead any time," Karin scoffed. "I'm sure he is singing your praises? I'm sure his gratitude is heartfelt?" She wasn't sure at all, but she was interested in hearing my answer.
"Not so's you'd notice," I admitted.
"That's very strange." I could not begin to imagine why she was curious.
"I thought so, too. Good night, Karin. Can you watch me from outside my room?" I switched off my light.
"Yes, I can do that. Eric didn't say I had to stay by your bed and watch you sleep." And there was a little ripple in the darkness to indicate she'd gone. I didn't know where she'd stationed herself, and I didn't know what she'd do when day came, but frankly, that belonged in the big pile of things that weren't my problem. I lay back and considered my immediate future. Tomorrow, work. Tomorrow night, apparently I was scheduled to have some kind of painful public confrontation with Eric. I couldn't get out of it, since I simply didn't see not showing up as an option. I wondered where Arlene had found to lay her head tonight. I hoped it wasn't nearby.
The upcoming schedule of events didn't seem very attractive.
Do you sometimes wish you could fast-forward a week? You know something bad's coming up, and you know you'll get through it, but the prospect just makes you feel sick. I worried for about thirty minutes, and though I knew there was no point in doing so, I could feel my anxiety twisting me up in a knot.
"Bullshit," I told myself stoutly. "This is utter bullshit." And because I was tired, and because there was nothing I could do to make tomorrow any better than it was going to be, and because I had to live through it somehow, eventually I fell back asleep.
I'd missed the weather report the day before. I was pleasantly surprised to wake up to the sound of heavy rainfall. The temperature would drop a little, and the bushes and grass would lose their coating of dust. I sighed. Everything in my yard would grow even faster.
By the time I'd gone through my morning routine, the downpour had slacked off a bit, from torrential to light, but the Weather Channel told me heavy rain would resume in the late afternoon and might continue intermittently through the next few days. That was good news for all the farmers and, therefore, for Bon Temps. I practiced a happy smile in the mirror, but it didn't sit right on my face.
I dashed out to my car through the drizzle without bothering to open my umbrella. Maybe a little adrenaline would help me get going. I had very little enthusiasm for anything today held. Since I wasn't sure if Sam would be able or willing to walk across the parking lot to work, I might have to stay until closing. I couldn't keep dumping so much responsibility on employees unless I gave them a bump in pay, and we simply couldn't afford that right now.
As I pulled up behind the bar, I noticed that Bernie's car was gone. She'd meant it when she said she was leaving. Should I go in the bar first or try to catch Sam in his trailer?
While I was still debating, I caught a glimpse of yellow through the rain on my windshield. Sam was standing by the Dumpster, which was conveniently placed between the kitchen door and the employee entrance. He was wearing a yellow plastic rain poncho, one he kept hanging in his office for such occasions. At first, I was so relieved to see him I didn't absorb the message in his body language. He was standing, frozen and stiff, with a bag of garbage in his left hand. He'd shoved the sliding Dumpster lid aside with his right. He was looking into the Dumpster, all his attention focused on something inside.
I had that sinking feeling. You know, the one you get when you realize your whole day has just turned south. "Sam?" I opened my umbrella and hurried over to him. "What's wrong?"
I put my hand on his shoulder. He didn't twitch; it's hard to surprise a shapeshifter. He also didn't speak.
There was more odor than usual coming from the Dumpster.
I choked, but made myself look into the hot metal confines, half-full with bagged garbage.
Arlene wasn't in a bag. She was lying on top. The bugs and the heat had already started to work on her, and now the rain was falling on her swollen, discolored face.
Sam dropped the garbage bag to the ground. With obvious reluctance, he bent forward to touch his fingers to Arlene's neck. He knew as well as I that she was dead. There was nothing in her brain for me to register, and any shifter could smell death.
I said a very bad word. Then I repeated it a few times.
After a moment Sam said, "I never heard you say that out loud."
"I don't even think it that often." I hated to enlarge on this particular piece of bad news, but I had to. "She was just here yesterday, Sam. In your office. Talking to me."
By silent mutual consent, we moved over to the shelter of the oak tree in Sam's yard. He'd left the Dumpster open, but the raindrops would not hurt Arlene. Sam didn't say anything for a long moment. "I guess lots of people saw her?" he asked.
"I wouldn't call it lots of people. We didn't have that many customers. But whoever was in the bar had to have seen her, because she must have come through the front door." I thought for a second. "Yeah, I didn't hear the back door open. She came back to your office while I was working on the mail, and she talked to me for maybe five or ten minutes. It seemed like forever."
"Why would she come to Merlotte's?" Sam looked at me, baffled.
"She said she wanted her job back."
Sam closed his eyes for a long moment. "Like that was going to happen." And he opened them, looking right into mine. "I am so tempted to take her body out of here and dump it somewhere else." He was asking me a question; though I was shocked for a split second, I understood his feelings very well.
"We could do that," I said quietly. "It would sure . . ." Save us a lot of trouble. Be a terrible thing to do. Take the focus of any investigation away from Merlotte's. "Be messy," I concluded. "But doable."Sam put an arm around my shoulders and tried to smile. "They say your best friend will help you move a body," he said. "You must be my best friend."
"I am," I said. "I'll help you move Arlene in a New York minute - if we really decide that's the right thing to do."
"Oh, it isn't," Sam said heavily. "I know it's not. And you know it's not. But I hate the thought of the bar being involved in another police investigation . . . not only the bar, but us personally. We have enough to heal from already. I know you didn't kill Arlene, and you know I didn't. But I don't know if the police will believe that."
"We could put her in the trunk of my car," I said, but I didn't even convince myself that we were going to act on that. I could feel the impulse dying away. To my surprise, Sam hugged me, and we stood in the shade of the tree for a long moment, water dripping down on us as the rain died away to a light drizzle. I'm not sure what Sam was thinking exactly, and I was glad of that; but I could read enough from his head to know that we were sharing a reluctance to start the next phase of today.
After a while, we released each other. Sam said, "Hell. Okay, call the cops."
With no enthusiasm, I called 911.
While we waited, we sat on the steps of Sam's porch. The sun popped out as though it had been cued, and the moisture in the air turned to steam. This was as much fun as sitting in a sauna with clothes on. I felt sweat trickle down my back.
"Do you have any idea what happened to her, what killed her?" I asked. "I didn't look that close."
"I think she was strangled," Sam said. "I'm not sure, she was so bloated, but I believe something is still around her neck. Maybe if I'd watched more episodes of CSI . . ."
I snorted. "Poor Arlene," I said, but I didn't sound too grieved.
Sam shrugged. "I don't get to pick who lives and who dies, but Arlene wouldn't have topped my list of people I'd ask mercy for."
"Since she tried to have me killed."
"And not just killed quick," Sam said. "Killed slow and awful. Taking all that into consideration, if there had to be a body in my garbage, I'm not too sorry it's hers."
"Too bad for the kids, though," I said, suddenly realizing there were two people who would miss Arlene for the rest of their lives.
Sam shook his head silently. He was sympathetic to the kids' plight, but Arlene had been transforming into a less-than-stellar mom, and she would have warped them right along with herself. Arlene's adopted brand of extreme intolerance was as bad for children as radiation.
I heard a siren, and as it got louder, my eyes met Sam's in resignation.
What a mess the next two hours were.
Both Andy Bellefleur and Alcee Beck arrived. I tried to stifle a groan. I was friends with Andy's wife, Halleigh, which made this situation doubly awkward . . . though at the moment, social awkwardness was not on the top of my list of worries, and it was preferable to dealing with Alcee Beck, who simply didn't like me. At least the two patrol officers doing the actual evidence gathering were familiar to us; Kevin and Kenya had both graduated from the training course for collecting and processing evidence.
That must have been some course, because the Ks sure seemed to know what they were doing. Despite the smothering heat (the rain didn't seem to have worked in the cooling-down department), the two went about their jobs with careful efficiency. Andy and Alcee took turns helping them and asking us questions, most of which we couldn't answer.
When the coroner came to pick up the body, I heard him remark to Kenya that he figured Arlene had been strangled. I wondered if the pathologist who did the autopsy would reach the same conclusion.
We should have gone inside Sam's trailer, where it was cool, but when I suggested it, Sam said he wanted to keep an eye on what the police were doing. With a long sigh, I pulled my knees up to my chin to get my legs in the shade. I propped my back against the door of the trailer, and after a moment Sam propped his against the rails around the little porch. He'd long since discarded the plastic poncho, and I'd pulled up my hair on top of my head. Sam went in the trailer and came out with two glasses of iced tea. I drank mine in three big gulps and held the cold glass to my forehead.
I was sweaty and gloomy and scared, but at least I wasn't alone.
After Arlene's body had been tagged and bagged and started its pathetic journey to the nearest state medical examiner, Andy came over to talk to us. Kenya and Kevin were now searching the Dumpster, which had to be one of the world's worst tasks - definitely worthy of Dirty Jobs. They were both sweating like pigs, and from time to time they'd vent their feelings verbally. Andy was moving slowly and wearily, and I could tell the heat was getting him down.
"Arlene just got out less than a week ago, and she's dead," Andy said heavily. "Halleigh's feeling poorly, and I'd rather be home with her than out here, for God's sake." He glared at us as if we'd planned this encounter. "Dammit, what was she doing here? Did you see her?"
"I did. She came to ask for a job," I said. "Yesterday afternoon. Of course, I told her no. She walked out. I didn't see her after that, and I left for home about . . . seven, or a little later, I guess."
"She say where she was staying?"
"Nope. Maybe in her trailer?" Arlene's trailer was still parked in the little clearing where she'd been (a) shot and (b) arrested.
Andy looked skeptical. "Would it even be still hooked up to electricity? And there must be twenty bullet holes in that thing."
"If you've got somewhere to go to, that's where you go," I said. "Most people have to do that, Andy. They don't have a choice."
Andy was sure I was accusing him of being an elitist since he was a Bellefleur, but I wasn't. I was just stating a fact.
He eyed me resentfully and turned even redder. "Maybe she was staying with friends," he plowed on.
"I just wouldn't know." I privately doubted if Arlene had that many friends anymore, especially ones who would have wanted to host her. Even people who didn't like vampires and didn't think much of women who consorted with the undead might think twice about buddying up to a woman who'd been willing to lure her best friend to a crucifixion. "She did say when she was leaving the bar that she was going to go talk to her two new friends," I added helpfully. I'd heard that in her thoughts, but I'd heard it. I didn't have to spell it out. Andy got all freaked-out when he had to think about what I could do. "But I don't know who she meant."
"You know where her kids are?" Andy asked.
"I do know that." I was pleased to be able to contribute more. "Arlene said they'd been staying with Chessie and Brock Johnson. You know them? They live next to where Tray Dawson had his repair shop."
Andy nodded. "Sure. Why the Johnsons, though?"
"Chessie was a Fowler. She's related to the kids' dad, Rick Fowler. That's why Arlene's buddy Helen dumped the kids there."