Dead Until Dark (Sookie Stackhouse #1)(68)

“I’ve been out in the sun a lot,” I assured him. Dawn had never gotten along with Lafayette, whether because he was black or because he was gay, I didn’t know . . . maybe both. Arlene and Charlsie just accepted the cook, but didn’t go out of their ways to be friendly. But I’d always kind of liked Lafayette because he conducted what had to be a tough life with verve and grace.

I looked down at the cutting board. All the lemons had been quartered. All the limes had been sliced. My hand was holding the knife, and it was wet with juices. I had done it without knowing it. In about thirty seconds. I closed my eyes. My God.

When I opened them, Lafayette was staring from my face to my hands.

“Tell me I didn’t just see that, girlfriend,” he suggested.

“You didn’t,” I said. My voice was cool and level, I was surprised to note. “Excuse me, I got to put these away.” I put the fruit in separate containers in the big cooler behind the bar where Sam kept the beer. When I shut the door, Sam was standing there, his arms crossed across his chest. He didn’t look happy.

“Are you all right?” he asked. His bright blue eyes scanned me up and down. “You do something to your hair?” he said uncertainly.

I laughed. I realized that my guard had slid into place easily, that it didn’t have to be a painful process. “Been out in the sun,” I said.

“What happened to your arm?”

I looked down at my right forearm. I’d covered the bite with a bandage.

“Dog bit me.”

“Had it had its shots?”

“Sure.”

I looked up at Sam, not too far, and it seemed to me his wiry, curly, red-blond hair snapped with energy. It seemed to me I could hear his heart beating. I could feel his uncertainly, his desire. My body responded instantly. I focussed on his thin lips, and the rich smell of his aftershave filled my lungs. He moved two inches closer. I could feel the breath going in and out of his lungs. I knew his penis was stiffening.

Then Charlsie Tooten came in the front door and slammed it behind her. We both took a step away from each other. Thank God for Charlsie, I thought. Plump, dumb, good-natured, and hardworking, Charlsie was a dream employee. Married to Ralph, her high school sweetheart, who worked at one of the chicken processing plants, Charlsie had a girl in the eleventh grade and a married daughter. Charlsie loved to work at the bar so she could get out and see people, and she had a knack for dealing with drunks that got them out the door without a fight.

“Hi, you two!” she called cheerfully. Her dark brown hair (L’Oreal, Lafayette said) was pulled back dramatically to hang from the crown of her head in a cascade of ringlets. Her blouse was spotless and the pockets of her shorts gaped since the contents were too packed. Charlsie was wearing sheer black support hose and Keds, and her artificial nails were a sort of burgundy red.

“That girl of mine is expecting. Just call me Grandma!” she said, and I could tell Charlsie was happy as a clam. I gave her the expected hug, and Sam patted her on the shoulder. We were both glad to see her.

“When is the baby due?” I asked, and Charlsie was off and running. I didn’t have to say anything for the next five minutes. Then Arlene trailed in, makeup inexpertly covering the hickeys on her neck, and she listened to everything all over again. Once my eyes met Sam’s, and after a little moment, we looked away simultaneously.

Then we began serving the lunchtime crowd, and the incident was over.

Most people didn’t drink much at lunchtime, maybe a beer or a glass of wine. A hefty proportion just had iced tea or water. The lunch crowd consisted of people who happened to be close to Merlotte’s when the lunch hour came, people who were regulars and thought of it naturally, and the local alcoholics for whom their lunchtime drink was maybe the third or fourth. As I began to take orders, I remembered my brother’s plea.

I listened in all day, and it was gruelling. I’d never spent the day listening; I’d never let my guard down for so long. Maybe it wasn’t as painful as it had been; maybe I felt cooler about what I was hearing. Sheriff Bud Dearborn was sitting at a table with the mayor, my grandmother’s friend Sterling Norris. Mr. Norris patted me on the shoulder, standing up to do so, and I realized it was the first time I’d seen him since Gran’s funeral.

“How are you doing, Sookie?” he asked in a sympathetic voice. He was looking poorly, himself.

“Just great, Mr. Norris. Yourself?”

“I’m an old man, Sookie,” he said with an uncertain smile. He didn’t even wait for me to protest. “These murders are wearing me down. We haven’t had a murder in Bon Temps since Darryl Mayhew shot Sue Mayhew. And there wasn’t no mystery about that.”

“That was . . . what? Six years ago?” I asked the sheriff, just to keep standing there. Mr. Norris was feeling so sad at seeing me because he was thinking my brother was going to be arrested for murder, for killing Maudette Pickens, and the mayor reckoned that meant Jason had most likely also killed Gran. I ducked my head to hide my eyes.

“I guess so. Let’s see, I remember we were dressed up for Jean-Anne’s dance recital . . . so that was . . . yes, you’re right, Sookie, six years ago.” The sheriff nodded at me with approval. “Jason been in today?” he asked casually, as if it were a mere afterthought.

“No, haven’t seen him,” I said. The sheriff told me he wanted iced tea and a hamburger; and he was thinking of the time he’d caught Jason with his Jean-Anne, making out like crazy in the bed of Jason’s pickup truck.