Chapter 15
When I arrived at the deli, the place smelled of fresh coffee and sizzling onions. I could hear Luke singing from the kitchen, and through it all came Dani’s tinkling-bell laugh. Thom even greeted me with a big smile as she counted money into the register.
I should always arrive to work twenty minutes late, I thought, although lately I had been.
“Sorry, guys. I hit some construction traffic,” I said.
“Nothing to worry about,” Dani said cheerfully, though there was something a little off with her smile. “We’ve got it under control!”
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yo. I be fine,” she said.
I wasn’t convinced, but I let it go.
“How was last night, after I left?” I asked Thom.
“Everything went smooth as velvet.”
“How was Mr. Reid?”
She broke a roll of quarters into the till and gave me a funny look. “As pertains to what?”
“I don’t know,” I lied.
“He was the short list of what every host should be,” Thom said. “He was very gracious and gave everyone a good tip.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Honey, what are you talking about?”
“Did you discuss the weather or the meeting—”
“Oh,” Thom said knowingly . . . and wrongly. “You want to know if he said anything about running those pictures? He didn’t.”
“I see,” I replied, improvising. “He should have apologized.”
“Yesterday’s news,” she said, not realizing what she’d said.
“Did he say anything else?”
Thom was losing her patience. “About what? Can’t you just spell it . . . oh,” she said again, once more knowingly and wrongly. “You mean about how the vote is leaning.”
I made a noncommittal face.
“I don’t know. A.J. and Dani may have overheard, if you want to ask them. I didn’t. I figure the good Lord will let you know when and what He wants you to know.”
“You’ve probably got a point,” I said.
“I know I do.”
“Was he surprised I wasn’t there?” I decided to be a little more aggressive.
“What? God? You askin’ what God thought?”
“No,” I said. “Mr. Reid.”
“Girl, you were there.”
“Only for a minute.”
“So? I don’t think he gave two thoughts to any of us, and if he did, he did not share them with me. He didn’t come into the kitchen, and I’m sure if things hadn’t run smooth outside the kitchen, I’d’ve heard from him. Now, are you writin’ a book about last night, or can I finish this so we can open?”
I told her to carry on, and a minute later the front door swung open and in walked our first customers of the day. The Repeat Returners, who gave me a dirty look as A.J. went to take their order, and a young couple I thought were tourists. You can always tell by the big lenses on their cameras. Except that the male half took pictures of the kitchen. I knew why, and at this point, I didn’t give two shakes. As long as they ordered something, they could take all the after-the-fact photos they wanted.
I went to the kitchen, gave a quick wave to Newt, Dani, and Luke, and headed for my office.
“Hey, you need to approve the playlist for open mic night?” Luke shouted.
“No,” I called back. “As long as it’s Luke unplugged.”
“Always, always.” He raised some fingers in a sign whose meaning completely eluded me.
I heard Dani say, “Unplugged rules!”
They made it seem so easy, so uncomplicated. Stinkin’ kids.
I put my bag on the back of my chair; sat in the chair, which I suddenly, irrationally viewed as an antagonist; and thought about what I had to do. Not what I wanted to do, not what I felt obligated to do, just what I knew I needed to do.
I had to go see Stacie.
That brief glimpse of her I’d caught had stayed with me all night. She looked like I felt: lonely. That spoke to me, louder than it should have. In a way, we’d both experienced the same kind of childhood: Dad wasn’t fully engaged. She was in love with someone but drawn to someone else. That wasn’t an exact matchup, but I understood the kind of riptides that could cause. She felt estranged from her mother. Mine had passed, but hers had tried to sell her. Those were two sides of the same sense of loss.
There was another part of this, though, and that was, what kind of advice would I give her? I didn’t know much about Scott, but I was not sure that I would’ve hooked my twentysomething life to his star. Childhood sweethearts or not, maybe she wanted something more. And if she didn’t, was it my responsibility to try and coax her in that direction?
Why? What did ambition ever do for you? I asked myself. Wouldn’t you have rather met and married a poor guy and been happy, some schlub who had a shoe shop in the East Village or ran a bar or sold back-issue magazines in a loft on Fourteenth Street?
“Why did you dump this in my lap, people?” I asked.
The chair creaked. I told it to shut up. Decided, I left the office.
I stepped out in time to see the ladies leave without tipping. A large family of eight sat down. Business was okay and the staff was moving around like a well-oiled machine that wasn’t even noticing me, so I slipped out.
It was a damp day—fitting—with a misty rain. I didn’t need an umbrella, just a baseball cap. I had decided to walk over to the child-care center Scott had mentioned. The not-long walk was one of those things I found myself having to force myself to do, like the time I had to go up and collect my sixth grade diploma and I felt like everyone in the world was watching me and I didn’t want them to. Or when I walked down the aisle with Phil and had a feeling like I was doing something incredibly dumb, and I had to tell myself it was just nerves and force myself to think, Left foot, right foot, left foot . . .
The place was on Seventh, between Broadway and Church. I smoked one of my “healthy” cigarettes on the way to chase away the jitters. I didn’t know why I felt them. I didn’t have a dog in this fight. If we got along, great. If she listened to me, fine. If she didn’t, okay. The worst thing that could happen was I’d waste some time and breath.
No, I thought. The worst thing that can happen is she likes you and you don’t like her. You’ll feel obligated to see her now and then, harming yourself to keep from hurting her. Thanks, Dad. Damn you.
As I walked, I heard a car horn toot to my left. I didn’t know if it was for me, but I looked over. It was Grant flying solo in his cop car. He pulled to the curb, rolled down the window, and asked if I wanted a lift somewhere.
“I’m okay,” I said.
“You want to get in, anyway?” he asked.
I said sure. Because I was either a masochist or insane. Because Luke and Dani definitely were not.
“What’s doing?” I asked.
“Heading out to see Brenda Silvio,” he said.
“Oh.”
“The funeral is tomorrow, and she’s planning to leave town immediately after and stay with friends. I wanted to talk to her. This is my shot.”
“What do you expect her to say?”
He raised and lowered a shoulder. I didn’t know him well, but I knew that gesture.
“You have something,” I said.
“Just questions.”
“What about?”
“I can’t tell you,” he said.
“Why?” I added angrily, before I could stop myself, “Because we’re not dating anymore?”
He looked disappointed. “No, Gwen. Because I told you about the canine presence and you told a third party.”
“Lydia?”
He made an “uh-huh” face.
“How did that come to your attention?”
“She came to the station, asked to see me, wanted to know what it would take to put someone in protective custody.”
“Who?”
“Can’t tell you that, either,” Grant said.
“Come on. She’s family. Almost.”
He seemed puzzled. “How’s that?”
I explained the connection. He listened without responding. Then he looked down the street. “You’re going to see your half sister,” he said.
I didn’t answer. I was being bitchy but didn’t care. He accepted that.
“Look, I just wanted to tell you that I assumed whatever I said to you was between us,” he said. “I would appreciate if you would respect that confidence going forward.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I hadn’t realized it was confidential.”
“Why? Because I didn’t flag it?”
“Yeah.”
“I expected better from you.”
“I seem to be getting that reaction a lot lately.” I cracked the door. “We done?”
“If you want to be.”
I looked at him. “Are we still talking about the case?”
“If you want to be.”
I exhaled. The windows were fogging. He switched on the defroster. The hum had the effect of a vibrating bed inside my head. It shook my thoughts into a relaxed state.
“I was upset when I left you that message,” he said.
“I was upset when I got it,” I replied.
“My work has always been important to me, Gwen. Not my job or my career, but my work. Keeping people safe, making Nashville a showplace.”
“I know that,” I said. “I respect it.”
“Well, then, understand that it was tough for me to shoulder that aside to make room for a potential relationship. No, I take that back. For an actual relationship. I like you a lot, we have—had—fun, and I felt you pulling away.”
“I guess I just don’t have my feet under me yet down here. The deli takes time, I’ve got the past in my head like Scrooge’s ghost, and then we have Joe Silvio.” I took his hand. He didn’t flinch. That was a big thing, with him being on duty. “It’s a lot. I screw up when I try to juggle. I’ve never been very good at it. I dropped the ball on this. The Grant Daniels ball. You got bruised and rolled away. I understand. I don’t blame you.”
“But are you upset?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“I don’t mean about the relationship. I mean, do you miss me?”
How to answer that. “I have missed you.”
“As in a lot or as in a little?”
“As in I would like to try again, if you would.”
He smiled.
“Would you have asked me that if you hadn’t happened to see me walking down the street?”
“I would have,” he said. “I planned to stop by on the way back from Brenda’s to chat about the sanctity of whatever I mentioned, or mention going forward, in pil-lowless pillow talk.”
“I got that message,” I said. “Loose lips sink investigations. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“I don’t think it did any harm,” he said. “She’s got other things on her mind.”
“I know.”
Grant looked at me. “Gwen.”
That was an odd thing for him to say, especially as an entire sentence.
“Yes, Grant?”
“I have an idea.”
“What kind?”
“A potentially disastrous one,” he said.
“Does it involve a second woman? Because I—”
“Maybe later in the relationship,” he said.
I was kidding. I hoped he was.
“No, I was thinking that you should come with me.”
Truthfully? That was a stranger idea than the other one. “Why?” I asked.
“Because . . . And this is between us, right?”
“My lesson has been learned.”
“Jason McCoy has been making things miserable for me with the chief and with the union.”
“How?”
“He’s been saying crap like I shouldn’t be involved with this, because you and I have a relationship, that it should be turned over to another detective, who just happens to be a family friend, the man who brought him on the force—”
“As if that wouldn’t be a conflict of interest. That’s lunatic!”
“Exactly.”
“Did you explain that that’s crap talk?”
“I tried,” he said. “But we’re dealing with cover-your-butt bureaucrats. Officer McCoy has convinced the chief that he should be there with his sister to make sure that she doesn’t get treated badly, just because you and she had words.”
“We had business words,” I said. “Those aren’t words. Those are negotiations.”
“Gwen, you’re not in New York anymore. You say anything cross about any family member, and you’ve got Fort Sumter on your hands.”
I guessed I should have realized that by now. Especially after Scott’s book report on the Hatfields and the McCoys.
“They’re also afraid because the National is running its own operation,” Grant said.
“What does that mean?” I had a feeling, and I didn’t like it.
“The publisher, Robert Reid, wants to crack this one. According to some of my street sources, he’s got his staff crime reporter working with about a half dozen private investigators.”
I didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Any of them women?” I asked.
“Yeah, two. Why?”
“Just curious,” I said. Because someone had watched me get my mani-pedi. Maybe it wasn’t Stacie after all. I wished I could wipe my left cheek. That prick Robert was going to get his, even if it cost me the Best in Nashville Award I deserved. “Why is he doing all this?”
“My guess is ego. When his father ran the paper, it had a reputation for the three Cs: Courage, Clarity, and Crime Busting. Since he took over, it’s become known for soft news.”
“Well, yeah. Family friendly, right?” I was praying hard in my head. I hoped it wasn’t showing.
“Family friendly, gay sensibility, I don’t know.”
I almost gagged on my saliva. “Wait. Gay? Who’s gay? Robert Reid?”
“Yeah. You didn’t know?”
“No.” Oh, he was so going to die badly.
“Well, so much for New York savvy. I thought you would have picked that up in the time it took you to slam and reslam your back door.”
“No, I didn’t,” I sputtered. “I guess I’m still getting used to the difference between what is gentlemanly charm down here and what is gay.”
Grant chuckled. “Didn’t you see Gone with the Wind?”
“I did,” I said.
“Rhett Butler?”
“Yeah, but I always thought Ashley Wilkes was kinda gay.”
He seemed pained.
My mouth was saying kind and witty words, but my brain was boiling. That son of a bitch Robert had used me. He’d lied to my face, to my left cheek, to my chewing mouth so he could get close to me and find a way to use me for information. Or at least to make sure no one else got close for an exclusive. Yeah, he would’ve invited me back to his place—to interview me about what it was like when I found the body. The scumbag.
Grant was suddenly very quiet. He flicked the wipers on and off to clear away the misty film. “So can your other business wait?” he asked.
“To tell you the truth, it can and probably should,” I said. “My head’s not quite in that game right now.”
He looked at me with a kind of intensity I’d never seen in him. It had been a long time since I’d had car sex, and then only once. We illegally, lustfully pulled over in Central Park during a snowstorm, on a date with an orthopedic surgeon. He was about twenty years older—I guess I was looking for a replacement for my sage, gray-haired NYU prof—and just as we were wrapping it up, he jerked funny and hurt his lower back. It was in the early days of cell phoning, and he had only a pager. I had to walk to Central Park West to call for an ambulance.
Grant said, “So will you come with me to talk to Brenda?”
It took me a moment to come back from snowy New York. “Sorry? Tell me why again?”
Grant grew impatient. “Listen, Gwen. Reid with all his gumshoes and me with all my officers have come up with nothing so far. I need to know more about Joe, and the only ones who can tell me are his widow and his brother-in-law.”
“Are they suspects?”
“Not even unofficially,” Grant said. “Is this between us?”
“No, I’m going to tell Reid.” I added as his expression darkened, “Kidding.”
“Joe had a term life insurance policy that didn’t pay much, and the bakery was hers before they were married and is again, so there doesn’t appear to be any motive.”
“Did you know that a guy named Stephen Hatfield wants to buy it?”
“Rotten guy,” said Grant.
“Well, they’re suing him for a variety of legal reasons.”
Grant seemed impressed. “You’ve been doing some homework.”
“I get around,” I said.
“We know about that lawsuit, but Brenda and Joe were both on the same page there. No conflict. But what we just discussed is pretty much all we know about the two McCoys. The Internet is great for Lions Club archives, newspaper morgues, and finding old relatives and classmates, but it doesn’t tell you much about low-profile people with a privately held company.”
“You’re thinking that with me there, it’ll be easier to open her up?”
“Right. Jason McCoy’s been itching to talk to you. Why not let him? He won’t be able to watch after his sister and give you the third degree.”
“Divide and conquer. Okay. But isn’t it a little tacky, right before the funeral and all?”
“No reason you can’t come to the house to pay your respects.”
“Except that Officer McCoy thinks I killed his brother-in-law.”
“He’s an idiot,” Grant said. “He’s not even a good cop. He was grandfathered in—literally—because his uncle and grandfather were cops. His uncle’s former partner is his guardian angel.”
“Is his family still on the force?”
Grant shook his head. “His uncle started a private security firm about five, six years ago. More money in that. His grandfather is eighty-one and retired. Still does some PI work on the side.”
The way he said that made me say, “Don’t tell me.”
“Yep. He’s working for Reid. That’s how we got tipped off. He’s still sharp, but he tends to talk too much.”
Grant tapped a Tic Tac from a container. He slipped the container back into his shirt pocket. I saw his gun in his shoulder holster. For some reason that turned me on. A man who cared about his breath and was equipped to protect me. I knew there was something primal that had appealed to me about this man.
“The good news is, Jason will behave because of his sister and because mourners will be arriving about an hour after we do,” Grant said. “Hey, he never specified where and when he wants to talk to you. I’m just giving him what he wants.”
A pawn in a game, I thought. The idea of being used by another Southern gentleman brought me down a little from my high. But he was right. I forced myself to focus on the game plan. “Shouldn’t we arrive separately?”
“Frankly, it helps me if we don’t,” he said. “I can honestly tell the chief I thought the whole thing over and decided, yeah, my brother in blue deserves his shot.”
I couldn’t help myself. “So I’m your little get-out-ofa-fix-free card, eh?”
“Call it penance for dog saliva,” he replied.
Okay . . . I deserve that, I thought. But it struck me as a perfect description of my life so far. I wasn’t the dog, I wasn’t the killer, and I wasn’t the dead man. Yet somehow, the bill still ended up on my plate. That wasn’t self-pity talking: I was a scrapper, not a wallower. It was a fact. Other people’s messes always seemed to find me—Phil’s mother issues, Dad’s wanderlust, my staff’s romances and spats, people dying while I’m trying to work, the guy I was hot for being gay. Maybe that was a way to bond with Stacie. Commiserating over people who left their trash on our psychological stoops.
Grant was still holding my hand and gave it a little thank-you squeeze. It was worth whatever egg in the face this little undertaking would leave me with. It brought me back to the moment. For that moment, I felt content.
He pulled from the curb, and less than two minutes later we were on 65, headed north.