Dead Ever After: A True Blood Novel

by Charlaine Harris

  I endured a few more mental and verbal cycles like this before Jane realized she had a companion in the cell and that her new buddy wasn’t one of her usual cell mates.

  “Sookie, what are you doing here?” Jane said. She still sounded pretty puny, though God knew her body should be empty of toxins.

  “I’m as surprised as you are,” I said. “They think I killed Arlene.”

  “So she did get out of jail. I really did see her, not last night but the night before,” Jane said, brightening a little. “I thought it was a dream or something, since I was sure she was behind bars.”

  “You saw her? Somewhere besides Merlotte’s?” I didn’t think Jane had been in Merlotte’s when Arlene had come to speak to me.

  “Yeah, I was gonna tell you yesterday, but I got sidetracked by that lawyer talk.”

  “Where did you see her, Jane?”

  “Oh, where’d I see her? She was . . .” This was clearly a big effort for Jane. She ran her fingers through her snarled hair. “She was with two guys.”

  Presumably these were the friends Arlene had mentioned. “When was this?” I tried to ask this very gently, because I didn’t want to risk knocking Jane off course. She wasn’t the only one who was having a hard time staying on track. I had to concentrate hard to both breathe and ask coherent questions. After Jane’s episodes of illness, it smelled pretty awful in our little bunkhouse.

  Jane tried to recall the time and place of her Arlene encounter, but it was such a struggle and there were so many less taxing things to think about that it took her a while. However, Jane was at heart a kind person, so she fumbled through her memories till she arrived at success. “I seen her out back of . . . you remember that real big guy who repaired motorcycles?”

  I had to clamp down on myself to keep my voice casual. “Tray Dawson. Had a shop and a house out where Court Street turns into Clarice Road.” Tray’s large shop/garage stood between Tray’s house and Brock and Chessie Johnson’s, where Coby and Lisa were living. There were only woods behind those houses, and since Tray’s was the last one on the street, it was a secluded spot.

  “Yeah. She was out there, in back of his house. It’s been closed for a while now, so I got no idea what she was doing.”

  “You know the guys she was with?” I was trying so hard to sound casual, trying so hard not to inhale the terrible miasma, that my voice came out in a squeak like a mouse that was being strangled.

  “No, I ain’t seen them before. One of ’em was kind of tall and skinny and bony, and the other one was just plain looking.”

  “How’d you come to see them?”

  If Jane had had enough energy to look uncomfortable, she would have. As it was, she looked a tad woeful. She said, “Well, that night I thought about going by the nursing home to see Aunt Martha, but I stopped off at the house to have a little drink, so by the time I got to the nursing home, they said the place was closing to visitors, it being pretty late and all. But I run into Hank Clearwater there, you know, the handyman? He was leaving after visiting his dad. Well, me and Hank have known each other forever, and he said we could have a drink in his car, and before you know it one thing led to another, but we thought he better move the car somewhere a little more private, so he pulled into the woods across the street from the nursing home, there’s a little track through the woods where kids run four-wheelers. We could see the backs of the houses on Clarice Road. They all got those big security lights. Helped us see what we were doing!” She giggled.

  “So that’s how you were able to see Arlene,” I said, since I didn’t even want to think about Hank and Jane.

  “Yeah, that’s how come I saw her. I thought, ‘Damn, that’s Arlene, and she’s out, and she tried to kill Sookie. What’s up with that?’ Those men were real close to her. She was handing them something, and then Hank and I . . . got to . . . talking, and I never saw them again. Next time I looked up, they were gone.”

  Jane’s piece of information was very important to me in a dubious kind of way. On the one hand, it might help clear me or at least give the law grounds for doubting that I’d had any part in killing Arlene. On the other hand, Jane was not what you would call a reliable witness, and her story could be shaken up with one arm tied behind a policeman’s back.

  I sighed. As Jane began a monologue about her long “friendship” with Hank Clearwater (I’d never be able to have him in to work on my plumbing after this), I had some random thoughts of my own.

  My witness, Karin the Slaughterer, would not rise until full dark, which would not be achieved until quite late. (Not for the first time, I told myself how much I hated daylight saving time.) Karin was a better witness than Jane because she was obviously sharp, alert, and in her right mind. Of course, she was dead. Having a vampire as a witness to your whereabouts was not a glowing testimonial. Though they were now citizens of the United States, they were not treated or regarded like humans, not by a long shot. I wondered if the police would get around to interviewing Karin tonight. Maybe they’d already sent someone to Fangtasia before she’d turned in today.

  I considered what Jane had told me. A tall, thin guy and a plain guy, not locals or Jane would have recognized them. With Arlene. In the area behind the house next door to where her children were staying with Brock and Chessie Johnson. Late, on the night Arlene was murdered. That was a big development.

  Kevin, in a clean, crisp uniform, brought us lunch an hour later. Fried bologna, mashed potatoes, sliced tomatoes. He looked at me with as much distaste as I’d looked at the food.

  “You can just cut that out, Kevin Pryor,” I said. “I no more killed Arlene than you can tell your mama who you’re living with.”

  Kevin turned bright red, and I knew my tongue had gotten the better of me. Kevin and Kenya had been living together for a year now, and most people in town knew about it. But Kevin’s mom could pretend she didn’t know because Kevin didn’t tell her face-to-face. There wasn’t a thing wrong with Kenya, except for Kevin’s mom she was the wrong color to be a girlfriend to Kevin.

  “You just shut up, Sookie,” he said. Kevin Pryor had never said a rude thing to me in his life. I suddenly realized that I didn’t look the same to Kevin now that I was wearing orange. From being someone he should treat with respect, I’d become someone he could tell to shut up.

  I stood and looked into his face through the bars separating us. I looked at him for a long moment. He turned even redder. There was no point in telling him Jane’s story. He wasn’t going to listen.

  Alcee Beck came back to the cells that afternoon. Thank God he didn’t have the key to our cell. He loomed outside it, silent and glowering. I saw his big fists clench and unclench in a very unnerving way. Not only did he want to see me go to jail for murder, he would love to beat me up. He was spoiling for it. Only the thinnest thread kept him anchored to self-restraint.

  The black cloud was still in his head, but it didn’t seem as dense. His thoughts were leaking through.

  “Alcee,” I said, “you know I didn’t do this, right? I think you do know that. Jane has evidence that two men saw Arlene that night.” Even though I knew Alcee didn’t like me, for reasons both personal and professional, I didn’t think he would persecute (or prosecute) me for his own reasons. Though he was certainly capable of some corruption, some graft, Alcee had never been suspected of being any kind of vigilante. I knew he hadn’t had any personal relationship with Arlene, for two reasons: Alcee loved his wife, Barbara, the librarian here in Bon Temps, and Arlene had been a racist.

  The detective didn’t respond to my words, but I could tell there was a question or two going on in his thoughts about the righteousness of his actions. He departed, his face still full of anger.

  Something was so wrong inside Alcee Beck. Then it came to me: Alcee was acting like someone who’d been possessed. That was a key thought. I finally had something new to think about; I could spend infinite time picking the thought apart.

  The rest of the day passed with excruciating
slowness. It’s bad when the most interesting thing that happens to you all day is getting arrested. The women’s jailer, Jessie Schneider, sauntered down the hall to tell Jane that her son couldn’t pick her up until tomorrow morning. Jessie didn’t speak to me, but she didn’t have to. She gave me a good long look, shook her head, and walked back to her office. She’d never heard anything bad about me, and it made her sad that someone who’d had such a good grandma had ended up in jail. It made me sad, too.

  A trustee brought us our supper, which was pretty much lunch revisited. At least the tomatoes were fresh, since there was a garden at the jail. I’d never thought I’d get tired of fresh tomatoes, but between my own burgeoning plants and the jail produce, I would be glad when they were out of season.

  There wasn’t a window in our cell, but there was one across the corridor, high up on the wall. When the window got dark, all I could think of was Karin. I prayed very earnestly that (if she hadn’t been already) she would be contacted by the police, that she would tell the truth, that the truth would literally set me free. I didn’t get a lot of sleep that night after the lights went out. Jane snored, and someone over in the men’s section was screaming from about midnight to one a.m.

  I was so grateful when morning came and the sun broke through the window across the corridor. The weather report two days ago had forecast Monday as sunny, which meant a return to very high temperatures. The jail was air-conditioned, which was a good thing, since it meant I wasn’t quite exasperated enough to kill Jane, though I came mighty close a couple of times.

  I sat cross-legged on my top bunk, trying hard to think about nothing, until Jessie Schneider came to get us.

  “You got to go in front of the judge now,” she said. “Come on.” She unlocked the cell and gestured us out. I’d been afraid we’d be shackled, but we weren’t. We were handcuffed, though.

  “When am I getting to go home, Jessie?” Jane asked. “Hey, you know Sookie didn’t do nothing to Arlene. I saw Arlene with some men.”

  “Yeah, when did you remember that? When Sookie reminded you?” Jessie, a big, heavy woman in her forties, didn’t seem to bear either of us any ill will. She was so accustomed to being lied to that she simply didn’t believe anything an inmate said, and very little anyone else told her, either.

  “Awww, Jessie, don’t be mean. I did see her. I didn’t know the men. You ought to let Sookie go. Me, too.”

  Jessie said, “I’ll tell Andy you remembered something.” But I could tell she didn’t hang any weight on Jane’s words.

  We went out a side door and directly into the parish van. Jessie had two other prisoners in tow by that time: Ginjer Hart (Mel Hart’s ex-wife), a werepanther who had a habit of passing bad checks, and Diane Porchia, an insurance agent. Of course, I knew Diane had been picked up (which sounded better than “arrested”) for filing false insurance claims, but I’d kind of lost track of her case. Women were transported separately from men, and Jessie, accompanied by Kenya, drove us over to the courthouse. I didn’t look out the window, I was so ashamed that people could see me in this van.

  There was a hush when we filed into the courtroom. I didn’t look at the spectator section, but when attorney Beth Osiecki waved her hand to catch my attention, I almost wept from relief. She was sitting in the front row. Once I’d noticed her, I caught a glimpse of a familiar face over her shoulder.

  Tara was sitting behind the places saved for lawyers. JB was with her. The babies sat in two infant seats between them.

  In the row behind sat Alcide Herveaux, leader of the Shreveport werewolf pack and owner of AAA Accurate Surveys. Next to him was my brother, Jason, and his packleader, Calvin Norris. Jason’s friend and best man, Hoyt Fortenberry, was nearby. Chessie Johnson, who was keeping Arlene’s kids, was having a low-voiced conversation with Kennedy Keyes and her boyfriend, Danny Prideaux, who not only worked at the home builders’ supply but was also Bill Compton’s daytime guy. And right by Danny glowered Mustapha Khan, Eric’s daytime guy, and Mustapha’s buddy Warren, who gave me a wispy smile. Terry Bellefleur stood at the back, shifting from foot to foot uneasily, his wife, Jimmie, at his side. Maxine Fortenberry came in, her walk ponderous and her face as angry as a thunderstorm. She’d brought another friend of Gran’s with her, Everlee Mason. Maxine was wearing her righteous face. It was clear that coming into the courtroom was something she’d never had to do in her life, but by golly she was going to do it today.

  I had a moment of sheer amazement. Why were all these people here? What had brought them to the courtroom on the same day I had a hearing? It seemed like the most incredible coincidence.

  Then I caught the thoughts in their brains, and I understood that there was no coincidence. They were all here on my behalf.

  My vision suddenly blurry from tears, I followed Ginjer Hart as she entered the defendants’ pew. If the jail orange looked awful on me, it wasn’t doing Ginjer any favors, either. Ginjer’s bright red hair was a direct slap in the face to the Day-Glo shade of the ensemble. Diane Porchia, with her neutral coloring, had fared better.

  I didn’t really care about how we looked in our jail clothes. I was trying not to think about the moment. I was so touched that my friends had come, so horrified they’d seen me handcuffed, so hopeful I’d get out . . . so terrified I wouldn’t.

  Ginjer Hart was bound over for trial since no one stepped forward to bail her out. I wondered if Calvin Norris, leader of the werepanthers, hadn’t shown up to stand bail for his clanswoman, but I learned later that this was Ginjer’s third offense and that he’d warned her the first and second times that his patience had a limit. Diane Porchia made bail; her husband was sitting in the last row, looking sad and worn-down.

  Then, finally, it was my turn to step forward. I looked up at the judge, a kindly but shrewd-looking woman. Her nameplate read “Judge Rosoff.” She was in her fifties, I thought. Her hair was in a bun, and her oversized glasses made her eyes look like a Chihuahua’s.

  “Miss Stackhouse,” she said, after looking at the papers in front of her. “This is your arraignment for the murder of Arlene Daisy Fowler. You’re charged with second-degree murder, which carries a penalty of life in prison. You have counsel present, I see. Miss Osiecki?”

  Beth Osiecki took a deep breath. I suddenly understood that she’d never represented someone charged with murder. I was so frightened I could hardly listen to the back-and-forth between the judge and the attorney, but I heard it when the judge said she’d never seen so many friends turn out for a defendant. Beth Osiecki told the judge I should be released on bail, especially in view of the very slim evidence that connected me to Arlene Fowler’s murder.

  The judge turned to the district attorney, Eddie Cammack, who never came to Merlotte’s, went to church at Tabernacle Baptist, and raised Maine coon cats. Eddie looked as horrified as if Judge Rosoff were being asked to release Charles Manson.

  “Your honor, Miss Stackhouse is accused of killing a woman who was a friend to her for many years, a woman who was a mother and . . .” Eddie ran out of good things to say about Arlene. “Detective Beck says Miss Stackhouse had solid reasons to want Arlene Fowler dead, and Fowler was found with Miss Stackhouse’s scarf around her neck, behind Miss Stackhouse’s workplace. We don’t believe she should be freed on bail.” I wondered where Alcee Beck was. Then I spotted him. He was glowering at the judge like someone had suggested whipping Barbara Beck on the courthouse lawn. The judge glanced at Alcee’s angry face and then dismissed him from her mind.

  “Has this scarf been proved to be Miss Stackhouse’s?” Judge Rosoff asked.

  “She admits the scarf looks like one she had.”

  “No one saw Miss Stackhouse wearing the scarf recently?”

  “We haven’t found anyone, but . . .”

  “No one saw Miss Stackhouse with the victim around the time of the murder. There’s no compelling physical evidence. I understand Miss Stackhouse has a witness to her whereabouts the night of the murder?”

  �
��Yes, but . . .”

  “Then bail is granted. In the amount of thirty thousand dollars.”

  Oh, yay! I had that much money, thanks to Claudine’s legacy. But there was that suspicious freeze on the check. Shit. As quickly as my mind ran through these ups and downs, the judge said, “Mr. Khan, you stand surety for this woman?”

  Mustapha Khan rose. Maybe because he resented having to be in a courtroom (he’d had some serious brushes with the law), Mustapha was in full “Blade” mode today: black leather vest and pants (how’d he stand that in the heat?), black T-shirt, dark glasses, shaved head. All he needed was a sword and multiple guns and blades, and since I knew him, I knew those would be somewhere near.

  “My boss does. I’m here to represent his interests, since he’s a vampire and can’t appear in the day.” Mustapha sounded bored.

  “My goodness,” Judge Rosoff said, sounding mildly entertained. “That’s a first. All right, your bail has been set at thirty thousand dollars, Miss Stackhouse. Since your family, home, and business are here and you’ve never lived anywhere else in your life, I think you’re a low flight risk. You seem to have plenty of community ties.” She glanced over the papers in front of her and nodded. All was right and tight with Judge Rosoff. “You are released on bail pending your trial. Jessie, return Miss Stackhouse to the jail and process her out.”

  Of course, I had to wait for everyone else, including the male prisoners, to have their moment in court. I wanted to leap up and run away from that bench where I sat with the other defendants. It was all I could do to refrain from sticking out my tongue at Alcee Beck, who looked like he was going to have a heart attack.

  Andy Bellefleur had come in to stand beside his cousin Terry. Terry whispered in his ear, and I knew he was telling Andy I’d made bail. Andy looked relieved. Terry punched Andy in the arm, and not in a “hey, buddy” kind of way. “I told you so, asshole,” he said audibly.