A Killer in the Rye: A Deadly Deli Mystery

It wasn’t the first time, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. I’d had my share of walks of shame in the past.

There was the Jim Tyler time. I met him at an art gallery opening during my sophomore year at NYU. I remember hearing him put the security chain on the door after I left that morning, but I don’t recall it being latched the night before. That was nice. Then there was the guy who rode me so hard, I had a pillow crease on my face all the next morning. That mark lasted longer than the hoped-for relationship, thank you very much, Mr. Reynolds, damn you. And, of course, there was Phil Silver, who managed to put on his pants and socks to “walk me home” before sitting on the edge of the bed and saying “Are you sure?” after I said, “Really, you don’t have to.” I ended up marrying that jerk. Or maybe I was the jerk. I was still working on that.

But those walks of shame didn’t come close to the one I almost had to take after leaving the deli that Friday morning.

This time I’d found a dead man; “contaminated” a crime scene, as I’d overheard the forensics boys muttering; spoiled an important event; hurt my foot kicking a cinder block; insulted my employees; and smashed my boyfriend’s heart like a gefilte fish. And to top it all off, it wasn’t until I was out the door that I realized all my keys were on the ring I’d dropped in the bread truck. Grant had asked an officer to recover them. Thom scrubbed them clean and left them on my desk. Luckily, I had a spare house key under my doormat for Grant. At least it was for him. Past tense, I was thinking. If Mother Teresa had been a lesbian and had dated, not even she would’ve put up with the bile I spewed. The parking garage had a spare set of car keys in case they had to move me. I’d borrow those.

In short, that was one walk of shame I wasn’t taking.

It was strange to be walking through downtown Nashville during a weekday. I’d spent almost a year working so hard, indoors, during those prime daylight hours that I really had never stopped to notice the flowers actually hanging from street fixtures, let alone to smell them, or the tranquility that I thought accompanied only nighttime Nashville, save for the chirping WALK signs on every street corner.

In New York I had never appreciated the little things, either. I would always strive to get from point A to point B in record time, letting no person or thing get in my way. I’d punted away my fair share of inconvenient passing taxis, which was not always advisable in heels. I would cross the street wherever I wanted without waiting for the right-of-way, like I do in Nashville. With drivers illegally on cell phones up there, and me texting and walking into low-hanging branches, like other pedestrians, before I even reached the street, it was a miracle I survived. It really did amaze me, though, that with so much chaos going on all around, New York taxi drivers could still spot a fare’s slightly extended arm from blocks away, or catch one that rose a second earlier, and still manage to pull over.

But in Nashville? Nashville’s a little different.

I’d started to learn that there was a certain amount of relaxation that accompanied being a Southerner. As wary of folks as I had been bred to be up north, most all of them around here treated you like houseguests, not strangers, and expected to be treated the same way. Oh, there are the selfish cows, like Big Red and her schnor-rers. But they’re the exceptions, and people are still nice to them. It was a new concept for me, one that took lots of discipline to remind myself of, and even more persuasion to enact.

Even though my dad and his brother Murray had lived here for over twenty years, I had stayed behind in Manhattan and had become an accountant and a wife with a starter marriage. It was not easy for me to shake that New Yorkiness from the blood and reflexes. From what I’d heard about Nashville in the early eighties, it sounded a lot like New York in the early seventies: gritty, seedy, pornographic, and unregulated, with dirty sidewalks, and a magnet for incredible talent. Although I didn’t get it at the time, I’m pretty sure all that creative flow pouring out onto the streets made my dad feel really at home here.

Something I’d wished I could’ve felt myself at that moment.

I was well past the garage and kept walking. I needed to enjoy the sun and shake out the metallic taste in my mouth, a combination of imagined blood and latte, which was all I’d ingested. I didn’t feel like going down to busy Broadway, where there was sure to be a dozen cabbies circling for tourists, waiting to take them to one of the few major hot spots they actually knew how to get to. I walked along Harrison instead. While waiting for the light to change on the corner of Tenth, I stood looking down at my pale toes in my spare pair of flip-flops, which I’d put on after the police took custody of my bloody shoes. I guess they wanted to compare them to any other footprints they found. Or didn’t find.

As I waited for the light to change, minding my business, a heavily made-up, big-haired lady started toward me from the other end of the block. She was giving me the once-over as she approached. I didn’t know her, had no idea what she wanted, and quite frankly was threatened by the beeline she was making toward me.

“Hi. I’m Crystal. From the salon down the block.”

“Hi,” I said back, certain that she had never done my hair. I went only to Amanda, a transplant from Newark, New Jersey. That was close enough geographically and culturally for us to bond.

“I saw you pass by a minute ago. You have such gorgeous hair. I’d really love to work with it. Here’s my card.”

“Thanks,” I sputtered, tucking it in the back pocket of my jeans, unable to believe that on top of the no-good, very bad day I was having, some scissor jockette would have the nerve to pick on my frazzled brunette hair at a time like this.

“You’re the owner of the deli, aren’t you?” Crystal asked. “The one they’re all talking about?”

“No, I’m Golda Meir,” I said.

The woman seemed puzzled. “I thought your name was Katz.”

“It is,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

I moved on, leaving a confused hairdresser in my wake.

Stopping at the pharmacy on Rosa and Jefferson, I bought the blondest dye-it-yourself gunk I could find and turned back toward the parking garage, taking care not to walk past the hair salon.

The mid-morning drive was quiet, uneventful, and utterly unmemorable. Truly, I didn’t remember driving home. I used Grant’s ex-key to get inside, and I closed the door, dramatically falling back against it, like someone had been stalking me down an alley. And maybe there had been. I couldn’t be sure anymore. I imagined all eyes on me after Crystal hunted me down like a trophy. Maybe they were; maybe they weren’t. It felt like it. I told myself, You’re home, and set the key on the counter. I didn’t want any surprise visitors.

It was only a little past eleven a.m., but I was already exhausted. Perhaps from the day’s events, perhaps just from walking on my out-of-shape, former New York legs. I got in the shower, scrubbed my hands like Lady Macbeth, washed my hair, tore open the hair dye, administered the blond treatment, put on the thin plastic hair cap, and sat on the couch with my laptop, checking e-mails and reading the local news, as I waited for Nashville’s official hair color to sink in.

The words were a whirlpool in front of my eyes. All I could see was Joe, dead Joe, pieces of Joe, and a lot of bread. They were tesserae of an absurd mosaic of homicide. It wasn’t that I hadn’t seen dead bodies before. I’d been to open-casket funerals, and I’d seen two people run down in Manhattan, one of them bounced about ten feet high on Central Park West before coming down on the dog he was pulling behind him. Both died. Then there was the guest at Lolo Baker’s party who fell through the ceiling into my catered spread a few weeks before.

This was different. Not just because of the blood, but because it had happened at my place.

What had really happened? I wondered. It had all started off so well. I was proud that I’d found a compromise with Brenda. I’d felt like I had a good shot at the prize. It was a photo-album perfect day filled with challenges I knew I could beat like pizza dough. What went wrong? Why did Joe Silvio pick today to become the late Joe Silvio?

Logic hit a wall. That’s when imagination takes over to get you through.

Am I next? Was I actually followed home? Am I really a suspect, but I just haven’t been subpoenaed? Can that even happen?

What was the press going to do to this? I’d slammed the door on the Nashville National, which was one of the sponsors of the competition. Robert Reid had probably been there to cover it.

I had better call them, right? I should prepare a statement or something! Call my lawyer to prepare a statement. I should call him, anyway, in case I was arrested.

Crap. Crap.

I told myself to chill. Let them all come to you. That way, you’ll have the energy to deal with this.

But what if the killer found me first? The police weren’t guarding my door. I had even told Grant to stay away—maybe that was the reason he wanted to spend time with me? Bless him, but damn him for not telling me. Hell, what if killing baker Joe was a warning to me?

Warning you of what? Don’t be voted Best Mid-Range. . . or else?

I told myself that there was only one thing to do.

Go rinse your hair.

I put my laptop aside and returned to the bathroom. If I was going to lose my mind, my life or, most importantly, the Best in Nashville Award, at least I’d lose it in style. Walking to the sink, I jumped as my cell phone buzzed. I went back to the living room and trolled through my purse until I found it. I didn’t recognize the number, although it was local, so I let my voice mail take the call.

I anxiously waited out the minute it took for the voice message icon to appear; then I quickly held the one button for the new message.

“You have one new voice message . . . ,” said the robotic voice-mail lady. “New message.”

“Hi, Gwen. This is Rob Reid from the National. I’m so sorry for all you’re going through. I spoke with one of your employees earlier about rescheduling . . .”

Oh. Shit, I thought. That’s what he was asking Dani?

“And I think we’ve come up with a workable plan. We want to try and keep the process on schedule. I’ve talked with the committee and with the editor here, and we’re just gonna go ahead and meet at my place Sunday, from seven to nine p.m. It’s not exactly a luncheon, then, but it’s the next time everyone is free and I’ve got the room. . . .”

Of course you do. Your daddy owns the newspaper chain.

“What I was hoping, Gwen, was that you could just do a take-out version of whatever you were planning for this afternoon. I know you were kinda stressed this morning, and understandably so, but I was thinking this might help put it behind you. Let me know, okay?”

“To save this message, press nine. To delete this message, press . . .”

I pressed nine.

Well, the good news was that if I went, I wouldn’t have to bring food for myself. I’d be eating crow. I knew Robert Reid only by sight, since he was in his own newspaper at least once a week, giving this trophy, cutting that ribbon, giving somebody a prize or a medal or a citation. I shouldn’t have assumed he was like every other publisher of every other tabloid I read in the nail salon, out to get a salacious, sensational story.

Not that I’d blame him. You read those damn papers, don’t you? You like peeking into the lives of the rich and powerful. You’re glad that their problems aren’t your problems, spread across the public consciousness. Scandal is always entertaining in the third person.

My phone buzzed again.

Thinking it was Robert Reid calling back, I answered.

“Look, I’m sorry to have overruled you in your own place, but you didn’t seem yourself. You were a mess, and I thought someone needed to take charge.”

“Did you call to make me feel better? ’Cause so far you’re sucking at it.”

“I called to explain why I stepped on your toes.”

“Okay. You explained.”

“Gwen, I didn’t call to fight.”

“If you hadn’t called, we wouldn’t be.” I knew that was harsh, even as it came out of my mouth. The fact that it had come from my mouth meant it was in play. Might as well see where the bitch ball landed.

“Is that what this is about?” he asked. “Do you not want me to call anymore?”

I might have hesitated a bit too long on this one, but I wasn’t sure. “No,” I hedged till I figured it out. “But you hurt me. What you call ‘taking charge’ I would describe as ‘kicking to the curb.’ You should’ve just let me get about my business. They’re still having the meeting, you know.”

“I heard.”

“It would’ve worked itself out.”

“Maybe. Of course, you were the one who stormed off. I was trying to transition things from a crime scene back to neutral.”

“Well, I’m not very good at idling.”

“I know.”

“I make ninety-degree angles. Top speed.”

“I know that, too.”

“You’re a knowledgeable guy,” I said. “Now, don’t you have a killer to catch?”

“I’m waiting for the autopsy and forensics reports to come back.”

“Good. I . . . holy crap!”

“What is it?”

“Grant, I . . . wow! Damn! I’ve gotta wash my hair now!”

“What?”

I hung up. My scalp was burning up. I’d never gone blond before, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to hurt. I tossed the phone on the couch, next to my laptop, and shuffled my way to the side of my bathtub, turned on the faucet, and knelt beside the tub, removing the skullcap and purging my head of toxic dye beneath the blessed running water. The initial coolness actually felt really great. I rinsed my hair thoroughly, reached blindly for my hanging towel, and wrapped my aching head in it.

Maybe I should’ve just taken Crystal’s advice and paid for her hair services. And Grant didn’t deserve what I had dished out, either, but I couldn’t help myself. I’m still that much of a New Yorker: get out of my way, or I’ll elbow you.

What I had to learn was that, in the process, I could also do serious damage to my elbows.