“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.”
“And Arlene didn’t pick ’em up when she got out?”
“Again, I don’t know. She didn’t talk like they were with her. But we didn’t exactly have a cozy chitchat. I wasn’t happy to see her. She wasn’t happy to see me. She thought she’d be talking to Sam, I reckon.”
“How many times was she married?” Andy finally plopped down in one of Sam’s folding aluminum chairs. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead.
“Well. Hmm,” I said. “She was with John Morgan for about ten minutes, but she never counted that. Then Rene Lenier. Then Rick Fowler, then Doak Oakley, then back to Rick. Now you know everything I do, Andy.”
Andy wasn’t satisfied with that, as I’d known he wouldn’t be. We went over the conversation I’d had with the dead woman, from soup to nuts.
I gave Sam a despairing glance while Andy was looking down at his notes. My patience was wearing thin. Sam interjected, “Why was Arlene out, anyway, Andy? I thought she’d be in a cell for years!”
Embarrassment turned Andy’s face even redder than the heat. “She got a good lawyer from somewhere. He filed an appeal and asked she be out on bail before the formal sentencing. He pointed out to the judge that she was a mother, practically a saint, who needed to be with her kids. He said, ‘Oh, no, she didn’t plan to take part in the killing, she didn’t even know it was going to happen.’ He practically cried. Of course Arlene didn’t realize her asshole buddies were planning on killing Sookie. Right.”
“My killing,” I said, straightening up. “The killing of me. Just because she didn’t plan on personally hammering in a nail . . .” I stopped and took a deep breath. “Okay, she’s dead. I hope that judge enjoys being all sympathetic now.”
“You sound pretty angry, Sookie,” Andy said.
“Of course I am angry,” I snapped. “You would be, too. But I didn’t come over here in the middle of the night and kill her.”
“How do you know it was the middle of the night?”
“I sure can’t slip anything by you, Andy,” I said. “You got me there.” I took a deep breath and told myself to be patient. “I know it had to have happened in the middle of the night because the bar was open until midnight . . . and I don’t think anyone would have murdered Arlene and put her in the trash while the bar was full and the cooks were working in the kitchen, Andy. By the time the bar closed, I was asleep in my bed, and I stayed that way.”
“Oh, you got a witness to that?” Andy smirked. There were days I liked Andy more than others. Today was not one of those days.
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
Andy looked a little shocked, and Sam’s face was carefully blank. But I myself was pretty glad that I’d had a nocturnal visitor or two. I’d known this moment would come while I sat sweating and waiting for Arlene’s body to be removed. I’d thought it through. Eric had said he wanted his visit to be kept secret, but he hadn’t said anything about Karin’s.
“Who’s your witness?” Andy said.
“A—woman named Karin. Karin Slaughter.”
“You switching teams, Sookie? Did she stay all night?”
“None of your business what we were doing, Andy. Last night before the bar closed, Karin saw me at my house, and she knows I stayed there.”
“Sam, what about you? Anyone at your house?” Now Andy was sounding heavily sarcastic, as if we were covering up something.
“Yes,” Sam said. Again, Andy looked surprised, and not happy.
“All right, who? Your little girlfriend from Shreveport? She come back from Alaska?”
Sam said steadily, “My mom was here. She left early this morning to get back to Texas, but you can sure call her. I can give you her phone number.”
Andy copied it down in his notebook.
“I guess the bar has to be closed today,” Sam said. “But I’d appreciate being able to open as soon as I can, Andy. These days, I need all the business I can get.”
“You should be able to open at three this afternoon,” Andy said.
Sam and I exchanged glances. That was good news, but I knew the bad news was not over, and I tried to convey that to Sam with my eyes. Andy was about to try to shock us with something. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I could tell he was baiting his trap.
Andy turned away with an air of unconcern. Abruptly, he turned back to us with the sudden pounce of someone springing an ambush. Since I could read his mind, I knew what was coming. I kept my face blank only because I’ve had years of practice.
“You recognize this, Sookie?” he asked, showing me a picture. It was a gruesome close-up of Arlene’s neck. There was something tied around it. It was a scarf, a green and peacock blue scarf.
I felt remarkably sick.
“That looks kind of like a scarf I used to have,” I said. In fact, it was exactly like a scarf I’d gotten by default: the one the werebat Luna had tied around my eyes in Dallas when the shifters had been rescuing me.
That seemed like a decade ago.
Feverishly, I tried to remember what had happened to the scarf. I’d gone back to my hotel with it. After that, I’d left it in my belongings in a Dallas hotel room and returned to Shreveport on my own. Bill had deposited my little suitcase on my porch when he’d returned, and the scarf had been tucked inside. I’d hand-washed it, and it had come out real pretty. Also, it was a memento of an extraordinary night. So I’d kept it. I’d worn it tucked into my coat in winter, tied it around my ponytail the last time I wore my green sundress . . . but that had been a year ago. I was sure I hadn’t used it this summer. Since I’d just cleaned out my bedroom drawers, I’d have seen it when I was refolding my scarves, but I had no specific memory of that, which didn’t mean a thing. “I sure don’t remember the last time I saw it,” I said, shaking my head.