Night Shift

by Charlaine Harris

  But they had promised each other not to fly, and he was shackled to Midnight.

  * * *

  “So you got to see Fiji buck naked,” Madonna said, apropos of nothing, to her husband.

  “Me and everyone else in town,” Teacher said cautiously.

  “How’d that make you feel?”

  He’d been folding laundry, and he kept on folding, though he also felt her eyes on him. “Sorry for her,” he said promptly. “She didn’t want to do that, and she’s no kind of exhibitionist.”

  “You didn’t think you’d like to get a piece?”

  “Madonna!” He was genuinely shocked. “You know I haven’t touched another woman since we’ve been married.”

  “Uh-huh. But I also know you like women with curves, and that Fiji has got ’em. And they’re not as jiggly as mine.”

  Teacher said, “Fiji has got nothing that you haven’t got, and I love you.”

  Which was absolutely the right answer, if it wasn’t exactly accurate on all counts.

  Later, Madonna said, “You think Mr. Wicklow will keep us here? Let us stay?”

  “Now that McGuire is dead? Well, I hope so. I like it here, to tell the truth. You?”

  “I’d like to try to make the restaurant a real concern,” Madonna said. “I’ve been kind of playing at it, because I knew he’d keep us solvent, no matter what. But if we really work, advertise, and get us a hook—maybe we’ll have the best pie in Texas, or something—maybe we can really make some money. Grady can have a car in high school.” Madonna had always envied the teens in her area who could afford that luxury. That was her idea of the best you could hope for.

  “He could learn the value of work that way,” Teacher said. He tried not to sound excited.

  “We wouldn’t be beholden to anyone,” Madonna said. “Of course, we also wouldn’t have a pension plan or health insurance.”

  “Let’s see what the man says.” Teacher said. “Might be he has a plan we’d love.”

  “Might be,” Madonna said. She was already thinking of new things she’d like to put on the menu.

  * * *

  Buying the house next to Fiji’s had been the quickest real estate transaction in the history of home sales. The sole heir had been delighted to get thirty thousand for a property he hadn’t thought about in ten years. Today, Quinn and Diederik started work on their new home. Quinn had some carpentry knowledge, and he enjoyed teaching his son what he knew.

  “Marina broke up with me,” Diederik said suddenly, just as he’d finished prying up the old tile in the bathroom. “By text.”

  “How do you feel about that?” Quinn continued on his way to the front door, where he tossed an old kitchen cabinet into a rented Dumpster.

  “I liked Marina,” Diederik said. “But I liked having sex with her more than I liked her, I think.”

  “Let me give you some advice. You may think that, but never, ever, say it out loud to a woman.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s what every woman fears. Every woman wants to be liked because of who she is, her personality, not because she makes her sex organs available.”

  “So I should pretend?”

  That was a puzzler. Quinn thought about it. Finally he said, “The perfect answer? Never to have sex with someone you don’t genuinely like enough to hang around with.”

  “How’m I going to do that?”

  “We’re going to have a lot of conversations about this,” Quinn predicted, and he was right.

  Though he didn’t share his disappointment with Diederik, Quinn had hoped that Fiji would choose him the night before, that it would be him curled up beside her in her bed next door on this chilly morning.

  But Quinn looked at his son, and he realized that if he’d had so much luck already, maybe he would have some more.

  * * *

  The Rev knelt in his chapel and prayed. There was always something to pray about, and the God of animals and humans was ready to listen. At least this time, the Rev could thank God for a long list of things. He was especially grateful that Kiki Cavanaugh had recovered from her spasm of madness enough to drive away all by herself late the night before. He would be even more grateful, he confessed to God, if he never saw the woman again.

  * * *

  Lenore Whitefield had woken at four a.m. She could not have said exactly what had happened the evening before. She and the people in the hotel had stayed in all evening, not even approaching the windows, and had had a pleasant Halloween celebration playing games and eating candy.

  But Lenore had been mighty irritated with Harvey because he hadn’t shown up. She figured he’d gone to a bar to binge-drink, something he did from time to time. He’d always come home before, but now the other half of the double bed was cold. Lenore rose and wrapped a fuzzy bathrobe around herself, made some coffee in the large kitchen. While it was perking, she looked out at the little parking area for the staff, and she saw that Harvey’s truck was still there. Lenore found that somewhat reassuring. After she’d had her coffee and gotten dressed, she began searching the hotel. Harvey was nowhere to be found, though she discovered a rumpled bed in one of the unoccupied rooms. There was an empty bottle and the television was on to the game show channel, all signs that Harvey had hidden in there to drink. Her worry congealed into a lump in her throat.

  Next, Lenore called Harvey’s cell phone and listened to it ring. She tracked the sound back to the room he’d used, where she found it under the edge of the bedspread.

  This had never happened before. If his truck was here, Harvey was here. If Harvey was gone, the truck was gone. But he always answered his phone, and he always came home.

  By the time the sheriff knocked on the back door, Lenore had admitted to herself that she was pretty sure Harvey was dead. She was sad. And she felt free.

  * * *

  Olivia woke suddenly, aware that she was still in bed with Lemuel, that he was cold and dead for the day. The previous evening had exhausted her, though she spared a smile and a moment to wonder how exhausted Fiji might be after spending the night with Bobo. They’d gotten off to a good start, if Olivia knew anything about sex at all, and she believed she did.

  Her phone rang, and her hand shot out to pick it up before the sound could disturb Lemuel. It was a silly reflex. Ringing would not disturb Lemuel in the slightest. “Hello?” she said, in a normal voice.

  “Melanie,” said a man’s voice.

  “No, this is Olivia,” she said calmly. “You have the wrong number.”

  “Don’t hang up, it’s your father,” he said.

  She froze. It had been years since she’d heard his voice. And she hadn’t recognized it because it had changed so much.

  “All right,” she said, unable to settle on one feeling.

  “I’m so sorry, Melanie,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “For what, specifically?”

  “For leaving your care to your stepmother.”

  “You finally admit I told you the truth?”

  “I do.”

  “Hmph.” Olivia pulled the covers up until only her hand holding the telephone and her head remained uncovered. She wriggled closer to Lemuel, which was only a comfort emotionally.

  “I just didn’t want to see it or believe it,” Nicholas Wicklow went on, when she didn’t speak. “I told myself that she needed the company of her younger friends and that it was nice she was paying so much attention to you. It never occurred to me that she was abusing you in such a terrible, terrible way.”

  “Even when I told you so. Even when my brother told you so.”

  “Even then. Melanie, did you . . . was her death really an accident?”

  “You’re not famous for actually wanting to hear the truth, Dad.” And Olivia hung up.

  She wasn’t sure what she would do the next time he
called. But there would be a next time.

  Maybe she wouldn’t hang up then.

  * * *

  Manfred Bernardo was taking Stell to lunch. She did not have to go into work tonight, she’d aced her last test, and she was in a good mood. They drove over to Marthasville with comfortable moments of silence and pleasant conversation when they thought of something to say. Despite the fact that he’d been up late the night before, or maybe for that very reason, he was delighted with the bright cold day and the smooth, clean lines of Stell’s face. He admired her red sweater and jeans and boots. He was learning more about her on every date. More importantly, all he was learning was good.

  Manfred liked women who could, and expected to, make their own way in the world. Both his grandmother and his mother had proved themselves capable of that. Manfred also liked women who didn’t judge, and Stell didn’t seem to have an issue with Manfred’s occupation. She asked questions as she would about any unfamiliar job.

  He’d offered a choice of an upscale Mexican restaurant or the best Italian place in the area, and Stell had picked the Italian place. Manfred had only been there once, but the service and food had been good, so he was hoping that would prove to be the case that day. A large party went in right before them, but for once Manfred wasn’t irritated about that. It would give him longer to talk to Stell.

  Their conversation covered the agonies of high school, the thrill of graduating and heading out into the world, Manfred’s one year of ju-co while he tried to figure out how to make his psychic talent pay for him, Stell’s ongoing education and how many years she had left. He asked her what kind of work she wanted to do when she got her degree.

  “I would be glad to work in a hospital for a few years,” she said, and Manfred could tell she’d thought about it. “But eventually, I think I’d like to work in a doctor’s office. Less pay, but regular hours, and closed on weekends.”

  “You’ve got a plan.”

  “Yeah, you bet I do. My dad is on a yard crew for a landscaper, and my mom cleans houses. They’re great people, but I don’t want that for me. I have some ambition.”

  “I like that,” Manfred said. He looked at her sitting across the table, and realized he knew so much about her. Her head and soul were telling him things about Stell that her mouth would not speak on such short acquaintance. “I like that a lot,” he added, with emphasis.

  And she smiled back.

  * * *

  Sylvester Ravenwing stood just outside the door of the convenience store and surveyed Midnight. The traces of the previous night were erased. He’d followed Kiki to a hotel in Davy and watched her check in. She would awake there sometime today and do whatever struck her fancy. He’d helped Quinn and Diederik to hose the salt and ash off the white circle, and when he’d called 911 to report the death of Harvey Whitefield before dawn the next morning, he’d felt a deep content.

  Sylvester liked this little town and his new job and his grandson. He thought he’d stick around for a while.

  * * *

  Arthur Smith didn’t spend much time thinking about the death of Harvey Whitefield. Harvey’s record contained a dismaying number of DUIs. It was kind of ironic that he hadn’t killed anyone else by driving, but he himself had died by being driven on. And there were a few questions about Harvey’s actions.

  Yes, it was weird that he’d gone out without a coat on a cold and raining night. Even drunks didn’t get out much in that weather. And it was odd that he’d left his cell phone in the hotel room in his own hotel.

  But the results of the autopsy were pretty cut-and-dried. Harvey had been stinking drunk. Either he’d been hit by a truck while bending over, or he’d passed out on the road. Being run over had killed him. “That’s all there is; there ain’t no more,” as the doctor said when he called Arthur after the autopsy. The doctor spared a moment to marvel that Harvey had been able to walk to the street, as drunk as he’d been.

  Arthur Smith listened with half of his attention. After all, it wasn’t like Harvey had been murdered.

  * * *

  The next night, Mr. Snuggly sat on the back porch of his house and listened, with some disgust, to the noises coming from within. It had been a long, quiet day. “The pawnshop isn’t open,” he muttered. “Neither is Fiji’s shop. This is wrong and bad. How can she buy my food if she doesn’t make any money today?”

  Fiji had explained that on slow days she still made a little money. But if the shop was closed (reasoned Mr. Snuggly), she would not make any, and therefore he might go hungry. He padded into the little pantry and counted the cans of cat food. He would be good for a week, and in that time she would get tired of staying in bed with Bobo Winthrop and she would open the shop to sell things.

  Mr. Snuggly very generously decided to let Fiji have her way today and tonight. Tomorrow, though, he would be sure she went to work.

  After all, a cat had to eat.

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