Sookie Stackhouse Boxed Set (Books 1-8) - Charlaine Harris [869]
“Were you friends?” Dawson rumbled, nodding his head at the bloodiest spot on the floor, the spot where Maria-Star had died.
“We were more like friendly acquaintances,” I said, not wanting to claim more grief than my due. “I saw her at a wedding a couple of nights ago.” I started to say she’d been fine then, but that would have been stupid. You don’t sicken before you’re murdered.
“When was the last time anyone talked to Maria-Star?” Amelia asked Dawson. “I need to establish some time limits.”
“Eleven last night,” he said. “Phone call from Alcide. He was out of town, with witnesses. Neighbor heard a big to-do from in here about thirty minutes after that, called the police.” That was a long speech for Dawson. Amelia went back to her preparations, and Octavia read a thin book that Amelia had extracted from her little backpack.
“Have you ever watched one of these before?” Dawson said to me.
“Yeah, in New Orleans. I gather this is kind of rare and hard to do. Amelia’s really good.”
“She’s livin’ with you?”
I nodded.
“That’s what I heard,” he said. We were quiet for a moment. Dawson was proving to be a restful companion as well as a handy hunk of muscle.
There was some gesturing, and there was some chanting, with Octavia following her onetime student. Octavia might never have done an ectoplasmic reconstruction, but the longer the ritual went on the more power reverberated in the small room, until my fingernails seemed to hum with it. Dawson didn’t exactly look frightened, but he was definitely on the alert as the pressure of the magic built. He uncrossed his arms and stood up straight, and I did, too.
Though I knew what to expect, it was still startling to me when Maria-Star appeared in the room with us. Beside me, I felt Dawson jerk with surprise. Maria-Star was painting her toenails. Her long dark hair was gathered into a ponytail on top of her head. She was sitting on the carpet in front of the television, a sheet of newspaper spread carefully under her foot. The magically re-created image had the same watery look I’d seen in a previous reconstruction, when I’d observed my cousin Hadley during her last few hours on earth. Maria-Star wasn’t exactly in color. She was like an image filled with glistening gel. Because the apartment was no longer in the same order it had been when she’d sat in that spot, the effect was odd. She was sitting right in the middle of the overturned coffee table.
We didn’t have long to wait. Maria-Star finished her toenails and sat watching the television set (now dark and dead) while she waited for them to dry. She did a few leg exercises while she waited. Then she gathered up the polish and the little spacers she’d had between her toes and folded the paper. She rose and went into the bathroom. Since the actual bathroom door was now half-closed, the watery Maria-Star had to walk through it. From our angle, Dawson and I couldn’t see inside, but Amelia, whose hands were extended in a kind of sustaining gesture, gave a little shrug as if to say Maria-Star was not doing anything important. Ectoplasmic peeing, maybe.
In a few minutes, the young woman appeared again, this time in her nightgown. She went into the bedroom and turned back the bed. Suddenly, her head turned toward the door.
It was like watching a pantomime. Clearly Maria-Star had heard a sound at her door, and the sound was unexpected. I didn’t know if she was hearing the doorbell, a knocking, or someone trying to pick the lock.
Her alert posture turned to alarm, even panic. She went back into the living room and picked up her cell phone—we saw it appear when she touched it—and punched a couple