"And why did you come here today?"
I explained about working for Dawn yesterday, about Sam's phone call this morning.
"Did Mr. Merlotte tell you why he didn't want to come here himself?"
"Yes, a truck was there to unload. Sam has to show the guys where to put the boxes." Sam also did a lot of the unloading himself, half the time, to speed up the process.
"Do you think Mr. Merlotte had any relationship with Dawn?"
"He was her boss."
"No, outside work."
"Nope."
"You sound pretty positive."
"I am."
"Do you have a relationship with Sam?"
"No."
"Then how are you so sure?"
Good question. Because from time to time I'd heard thoughts that indicated that if she didn't hate Sam, Dawn sure as hell wasn't real fond of him? Not too smart a thing to tell the detective.
"Sam keeps everything real professional at the bar," I said. It sounded lame, even to me. It just happened to be the truth.
"Did you know anything about Dawn's personal life?"
"No."
"You weren't friendly?"
"Not particularly." My thoughts drifted as the detective bent his head in thought. At least that was what it looked like.
"Why is that?"
"I guess we didn't have anything in common."
"Like what? Give me an example."
I sighed heavily, blowing my lips out in exasperation. If we didn't have anything in common, how could I give him an example?
"Okay," I said slowly. "Dawn had a real active social life, and she liked to be with men. She wasn't so crazy about spending time with women. Her family is from Monroe, so she didn't have family ties here. She drank, and I don't. I read a lot, and she didn't. That enough?"
Andy Bellefleur scanned my face to see if I was giving him attitude. He must have been reassured by what he saw.
"So, you two didn't ever see each other after working hours?"
"That's correct."
"Doesn't it seem strange to you that Sam Merlotte asked you to check on Dawn, then?"
"No, not at all," I said stoutly. At least, it didn't seem strange now, after Sam's description of Dawn's tantrum. "This is on my way to the bar, and I don't have children like Arlene, the other waitress on our shift. So it would be easier for me." That was pretty sound, I thought. If I said Dawn had screamed at Sam the last time he'd been here, that would give exactly the wrong impression.
"What did you do after work two days ago, Sookie?"
"I didn't come to work. I had the day off."
"And your plan for that day was - ?"
"I sunbathed and helped Gran clean house, and we had company."
"Who would that be?"
"That would be Bill Compton."
"The vampire."
"Right."
"How late was Mr. Compton at your house?"
"I don't know. Maybe midnight or one."
"How did he seem to you?"
"He seemed fine."
"Edgy? Irritated?"
"No."
"Miss Stackhouse, we need to talk to you more at the station house. This is going to take awhile, here, as you can see."
"Okay, I guess."
"Can you come in a couple of hours?"
I looked at my wristwatch. "If Sam doesn't need me to work."
"You know, Miss Stackhouse, this really takes precedence over working at a bar."
Okay, I was pissed off. Not because he thought murder investigations were more important than getting to work on time; I agreed with him, there. It was his unspoken prejudice against my particular job.
"You may not think my job amounts to much, but it's one I'm good at, and I like it. I am as worthy of respect as your sister, the lawyer, Andy Bellefleur, and don't you forget it. I am not stupid, and I am not a slut."
The detective turned red, slowly and unattractively. "I apologize," Andy said stiffly. He was still trying to deny the old connection, the shared high school, the knowledge of each other's family. He was thinking he should have been a detective in another town, where he could treat people the way he thought a police officer should.
"No, you'll be a better detective here if you can get over that attitude," I told him. His gray eyes flared wide in shock, and I was childishly glad I'd rocked him, though I was sure I would pay for it sooner or later. I always did when I gave people a peek at my disability.
Mostly, people couldn't get away from me fast enough when I'd given them a taste of mind reading, but Andy Bellefleur was fascinated. "It's true, then," he breathed, as if we were somewhere alone instead of sitting in the driveway of a rundown duplex in rural Louisiana.
"No, forget it," I said quickly. "I can just tell sometimes by the way people look what they're thinking."
He deliberately thought about unbuttoning my blouse. But I was wary now, back to my normal state of barricaded seige, and I did no more than smile brightly. I could tell I wasn't fooling him, though.
"When you're ready for me, you come to the bar. We can talk in the storeroom or Sam's office," I said firmly and swung my legs into the car.
The bar was buzzing when I got there. Sam had called Terry Bellefleur, Andy's second cousin if I recalled correctly, in to watch the bar while he talked to the police at Dawn's place. Terry had had a bad war in Vietnam, and he existed narrowly on government disability of some kind. He'd been wounded, captured, held prisoner for two years, and now his thoughts were most often so scary that I was extra special careful when I was around him. Terry had a hard life, and acting normal was even harder for him than it was for me. Terry didn't drink, thank God.
Today I gave him a light kiss on the cheek while I got my tray and scrubbed my hands. Through the window into the little kitchen I could see Lafayette Reynold, the cook, flipping burgers and sinking a basket of fries into hot oil. Merlotte's serves a few sandwiches, and that's all. Sam doesn't want to run a restaurant, but a bar with some food available.
"What was that for, not that I'm not honored," Terry said. He'd raised his eyebrows. Terry was redhaired, though when he needed a shave, I could tell his whiskers were gray. Terry spent a lot of time outside, but his skin never exactly tanned. It got a rough, reddened look, which made the scars on his left cheek stand out more clearly. That didn't seem to bother Terry. Arlene had been to bed with Terry one night when she'd been drinking, and she'd confided in me that Terry had many scars even worse than the one on his cheek.