I flew up the steps, crossed the porch, and unlocked the back door quicker than you can say “Jack Robinson.”
A little fearfully, I went to the answering machine in the living room and pressed the button to listen. Andy Bellefleur said, “Sookie, we traced the call. It came from a house in New Orleans owned by a Leslie Gelbman. That mean anything to you?”
I caught Andy at work. “I know several people in New Orleans,” I said. “But that name means nothing to me.” I didn’t think any of them would be placing a hate call to me, either.
“The Gelbman house is up for sale. Someone had broken into it through the back door. The phone was still hooked up, and that’s what the caller used to leave that message. Sorry we didn’t find out who said that stuff. Did you recall any incident that would make that message mean something to you?”
He actually sounded sorry, which was nice. My opinion of Andy wavered back and forth. I think his opinion of me did, too. “Thanks, Andy. No, I haven’t thought of anything I’ve ever done that could be construed as taking away someone’s last chance.” I paused. “Did you give Alcee my message?”
“Ahhhh . . . no, Sookie. Alcee and I aren’t on the best of terms right now. He still . . .” Andy’s voice died away. Alcee Beck still thought I was guilty and was in a snit because I’d been released on bail. I wondered if it was Alcee I’d seen out in the woods around Merlotte’s. I wondered how violently he felt about me being free.
“Okay, Andy, I understand,” I said. “And thanks for checking on the phone call. Give Halleigh my best.”
After I’d hung up, I thought of someone I should call about my present predicament. Jason had told me he hadn’t gotten an answer when he’d called the part-demon lawyer Desmond Cataliades. I got out my address book, found the number Mr. Cataliades had given me, and punched it in.
“Yes?” said a small voice.
“Diantha, it’s Sookie.”
“Oh! Whathappenedtoyou?” This was said in Diantha’s rapid-fire delivery, the words blurring together in her haste. “Yournumberwason-Uncle’scallerID.”
“How’d you know something happened? Can you slow down a little?”
Diantha made an effort to enunciate. “Uncle’s packing to come to see you. He’s learned a couple of things that have him all worried. He had a twinge of fear. Uncle’s usually right on the money when he has a twinge. And he has solid business reasons to talk to you, he says. He would have gotten there sooner, but he had to consult with some people that are pretty hard to catch.” She exhaled. “Thatwhatyouwanted?”
I was tempted to laugh but decided I would not. I couldn’t see her facial expression, and I didn’t want my amusement to be misconstrued. “His twinge was right on the money,” I said. “I got arrested for murder.”
“Ofaredheadedwoman?”
“Yeah. How’d you know? Another twinge?”
“Thatwitchfriendofyourscalled.”
After I chopped up that sentence into sound bites until I was sure I understood it, I said, “Amelia Broadway.”
“Shehadavision.”
Dang. Amelia was getting stronger and stronger.
“Is Mr. Cataliades there?” I asked, taking care to say it correctly. Ca-TAHL-e-ah-des.
There was empty air, and then a pleasant voice said, “Ms. Stackhouse. How nice to hear from you, even under the circumstances. I am setting off your way, shortly. Do you need my services as an attorney?”
“I’m out on bail now,” I said. “I was kind of in a hurry to be represented, so I called Beth Osiecki, a local lawyer.” I sounded as apologetic as I could manage. “I did think of you, and if I’d had more time . . . I’m hoping you’ll join in with her?” I was pretty damn sure Mr. Cataliades had had more experience defending accused murderers than Beth Osiecki.
“I’ll consult with her while I’m in Bon Temps,” said Mr. Cataliades. “If you’d like treats from New Orleans—beignets or the like—I can bring them with me.”
“You were coming up to see me, anyway, Diantha says?” My voice faltered as I tried to imagine why. “Of course, I’m real glad you’re coming to see me, and you’re welcome to stay here at the house, but I may have to be at work some of the time.” I could hardly beg off any more shifts at Merlotte’s, management or no management. Besides, working was better than thinking. I’d had my days of thinking after I’d resurrected Sam, and a fat lot of good it had done me.
“I completely understand,” the lawyer said. “I think perhaps you will need us to stay in the house.”
“Us? Diantha’s coming with you?”
“Almost certainly, and also your friend Amelia and perhaps her young man,” he said. “According to Amelia, you need all the help you can get. Her father called her concerning you. He told her he’d seen an article in the papers about you.”
That was heartwarming, since I’d only met Copley Carmichael once, and he and Amelia had anything but a smooth relationship. “Wonderful,” I said, trying hard to sound sincere. “By the way, Mr. Cataliades, do you know someone named Leslie Gelbman?”
“No,” he said instantly. “Why do you ask?”
I described the phone call and told him what Andy had discovered.
“Interesting and disturbing,” he said succinctly. “I’ll drive by that house before we leave.”
“When do you think you’ll get here?”
“Tomorrow morning,” he said. “Until we arrive, be extremely careful.”
“I’ll try,” I said, and he hung up.
The sun had just gone down by the time I’d eaten a salad and had my shower. I had a towel wrapped around my head (and nothing else on) when the phone rang. I answered it in my bedroom.
“Sookie,” Bill said, his voice cool and smooth and soothing. “How are you tonight?”
“Just fine, thanks,” I said. “Really tired.” Hint, hint.
“Would you mind very much if I come over to your house for just a few moments? I have a visitor, a man you’ve met before. He’s a writer.”
“Oh, he came here with Kym Rowe’s parents, right? Harp something?” His previous visit was not a pleasant memory.
“Harp Powell,” Bill said. “He’s writing a book about Kym’s life.”
Biography of a Dead Half-Breed: The Short Life of a Young Stripper. I really couldn’t imagine how Harp Powell could spin the depressing tale of Kym Rowe into literary gold. But Bill thought writers were great, even small-time writers like Harp Powell.
“If we could just take a few minutes of your time?” Bill said gently. “I know the past few days have been very bad ones for you.”
Sounded like he’d gotten the message, probably via Danny Prideaux, about my sojourn in jail.
I said, “Okay, give me ten minutes, and then you can come over for a short visit.” When my great-grandfather Niall had left this land, he’d put a lot of magic in the ground. Though it was delightful to see the yard blooming and bearing fruit and being green, I found myself thinking I would have traded all the plants in the yard for one really good protection spell. Too late now! Niall had taken my dog of a cousin, Claude, back into Faery to punish him for his rebellion and his attempt to steal from me, and left me with a lot of tomatoes in return. The last person to lay wards around my house had been Bellenos, the elf, and though he’d scorned other people’s protective circles, I didn’t exactly trust Bellenos’s. I’d rather have a gun than magic any day, but maybe that was just American of me. I had the shotgun in the coat closet by the front door and Daddy’s rediscovered critter rifle in the kitchen. When Michele and Jason had turned out all of Jason’s closets and storage areas in preparation for Michele moving in, they’d found all kinds of stuff, items I’d vaguely wondered about for years, including my mom’s wedding dress. (While I’d gotten Gran’s house when she passed, Jason had inherited my parents’ place.)