A Killer in the Rye (12 page)

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Authors: Delia Rosen

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“What's it say?” A.J. asked as she tried to peer over the angled document.

I folded it lengthwise. “A.J., would you get Dani over here?”

“Sure thing. Why?”

“Just . . . please.” I said it quietly because I didn't have the strength to shriek the request an octave above high C.

A.J. caught Dani's eye and motioned her over. She arrived, maneuvering deftly through stuck-out chair backs, holding dirty plates.
Pretty well balanced for a newbie,
I thought again. I was also slightly pleased that the deli boss part of my mind was acting independently of my exhausted, barely functioning regular brain. That meant I could literally lose my marbles and still run this place. That was good to know.

“Dani, the man who gave you this note, where was he when you had to show him where the bathroom is?”

“Back there.” She jerked a thumb toward my office.

“Swell,” I said.

“Why?”

“Nothing,” I told her. “Just curious.”

“Oh,” A.J. said. “I get it. Your phone.”

“My phone,” I said under my breath. “What did he look like?”

“Just a guy,” Dani said. “Young. Black hair. Cute. A little like that host on Channel Five news.”

“Bill Roche?”

“That's him.”

“Dani, was it him?”

“No,” she said. “I don't think so. He was too short.”

I didn't bother explaining that it's tough to tell someone's height when they're sitting behind a desk on TV, but there was no point. I walked back to the office and shut the door quietly, because, again, I didn't have the energy to slam, kick, and punch it. Then I dropped the note on my desk and fell into my chair. It complained creakily.

“Don't talk to me,” I told the old piece of furniture. “Especially if my dad and that succubus ever used you.”

It squeaked.

My elders back in New Yorkâmy mother, my
tantes,
their canasta-playing friends, some of the senior execs at the firmâall of them had told me that there are times in life when you truly feel like you've hit a wall. Not when you're young, when you just feel tired. When you're older and you just run out of gas. Literally. Your face feels numb and you drop where you're standing and you don't move again until, like they did with tired horses in the Wild Westâaccording to that Burt Lancaster movie I saw, anywayâthey literally light a fire under your belly to get you back on your feet.

Well, this guy had done that. This man who had obviously cased the place for reasons of his own and had gone into my office, pretending to look for the bathroom. He had just lit a fire under my belly with his hastily scrawled note.

It said:

Call your cell phone.

Chapter 12

There was no procrastination. None needed, none given. I picked up the office phone and called my cell number.

“Hello?” the gruff voice on the other end said.

“Hello,” I replied. “This is Gwen Katz. The woman whose cell phone you stole.”

“I'm sorry about that,” the caller said. “I'm sorry it was necessary.”

I didn't detect a Southern accent, but then the voice sounded muffled.

“Are you talking through a handkerchief?” I asked.

“Does that matter?”

“I guess not. Just answer one question. Are you Bill Roche?”

“Who?”

“The Channel Five anchor.”

“No,” he replied.

“Okay. Then what are you?
Who
are you?”

“I can't tell you that,” he said. “That's why I took your phone.”

“Oh,” I said. “Got it.” God bless caller ID. Makes for a lot of needless cloak-and-dagger. “So why
am
I calling? Why was it necessary to take my phone, andâjust as importantâdo you plan to give it back? Oh, and do you have a dog?”

The voice on the other end fell silent for a long moment.

“A dog?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

“Good. Sorry. I guess that was a lot to throw at a common thief.”

“I'm not that,” he protested.

“No? Convince me.”

“I'll try to, if you'll let me talk.”

That was fair. It occurred to me that this was about more than a guy going into my office and taking my phone, which was pretty wrong. It was also about me being mad at my father and transferring that to this guy. “I'll shut up,” I told him.

He took a breath. I could hear it amplified by the handkerchief. “I need your help.”

“Why me?”

“Because I followed her to you.”

“Who?” Christ, it was another game of Sixty Questions.

“Lydia.”

Hell's silver bells. I had known that woman for a half hour, and I was already thoroughly sick of her. “What's she to you?”

“Personally, nothing. But she's Stacie's mother,” he said.

Another woman I didn't want to hear about. I was hoping this wasn't another ghost of Papa's past. God, I thought, I was just kidding about Kwanzaa . . . I swear.

“I'm listening,” I said. “What about Stacie?”

“She needs help.”

“I know. I heard.”

“No, no, not the kind Lydia was asking for.” His voice sounded a little contemptuous. “You lost me. Lydia didn't ask for anything specific.”

“Oh.”

“What did you think she was going to ask for?”

“Money,” the man with my phone said.

“I figured that. Why?”

“Not to help her out, I'll tell you that. Not for bills or debts or anything she could really use.”

“Has she got a lot of those?”

“Plenty,” the man said. “Her kind of work doesn't really pay.”

“I wouldn't know,” I replied.

“Lydia wants the money to get Stacie out of town.”

My sixth sense was tingling, only I got the feeling I was seeing dead people before they were dead. This time it was my father's other daughter. “Why? Did Stacie do something wrong?”

“I can't say,” the man told me.

“Can't? Won't? Clarify.”

“Both,” he said.

“Does this have anything to do with the dead bread man?”

“Listen, I'm just trying to get you to help someone who was important to your father. And not with money, but with support. She needs that now desperately. She needs a friend.”

“We all do. Why should I care? Just because my father had a handâor whateverâin her manufacture?”

The man was silent for a second. “That's a little cold. You don't even know her.”

“And I don't want to,” I replied. “Nor have you and your light fingers given me a reason to want to.”

“Let's just say there's more to this than just Stacie being caught between a rock and her mother.”

“What's the rock?”

“Not what,” the man said. “Who.”

“Are you the who?”

“I've told you enough,” he said. “I'll make sure you get your phone back.”

“Thanks, but you haven't told me anything,” I pointed out. “You want me to help a woman who means nothing to me and whom I don't want to meet. That's not good enough.”

The man was silent again, this time for longer than before. I gave him the time to think. He obviously needed it.

“I'll be over later to explain,” he said.

“Why the change of heart? You didn't want to tell me your name a minute ago.”

“Scott Ferguson,” he said.

“Thanks. What about the âchange of heart' part, Scott?”

“I'll tell you when I see you.”

“What time? I may have something important I have to do.”

“When do you close today?”

“Six tonight, but I wasn't planning to be here.”

“Can you make an exception?” he asked.

His voice was imploring. Also higher, gentler, and more Southern. He'd obviously given up on the bad voice disguise.

“I'll tell you what,” I said. “There's something I have to do after the important thing I have to do. I'll see you here at eight. That work for you?”

“It does. Thank you,” he said.

“Sure. And don't forget my phone.”

“I won't,” he promised and hung up.

If I'd succeeded in dying my hair blond, I'd think I was having Alice in Wonderland delusions. Things just kept getting curiouser and curiouser.

I hung up the receiver and stared at my fingers spread out on my giant desk calendar. I experienced an uncharacteristic rush of calm as I inspected my tattered nails. All the oils and sauces from slicing the meats and cheeses, from the salads and side dishes, had left my poor fingers looking like freshly dipped taper candles.

I was relieved that my cell phone wasn't actually missing, and right now even a small victory like that seemed huge. I felt like celebrating and decided that my little candlestick fingers could do with a little nail indulgence at Nail Indulgence on Sixth. I hit speed dial nine. Mei answered the phone.

“Hello, Nail Indulgence,” said the treble-pitched, middle-aged woman on the other end of the line. “This is Mei. How may I help you today?”

“Hi, Mei. This is Gwen from Murray's.”

“Hello, Miss Gwen. Boy, you been busy!”

“You saw the news?”

“Saw, read, heard, listened to everyone in my shop talking about it. You a celebrity!”

“Lucky me.”

“I would like to be famous. Good for business.”

“Hey, it's simple. Just find a dead body in your shop.”

“I did once. It was a skeleton. It was in a closet, behind a wall.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. About forty years old. It was a workman who fell from the floor above. No one ever thought to look for him below.”

“Wow. I wonder if Grant was on that one.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“What can I do for you today?”

“I was just hoping you had an opening for this afternoon. I just need a basic mani-pedi.”

“How is four forty-five?”

I looked at my watch. If I had guessed, I would have said it was already way past that. It was 2:20. “That's good,” I told her. “See you then.”

“Okay. Thank you. Bye.”

I hung up. I put my hair back in a ponytail and tied my scarf back into position and decided I was officially done with phone calls for the day. Done with working for the day. Done with life for the day, at least that part over which I had any control.

With renewed vigor and a sense that maybe things were on the upswing, I stood and went back into the deli. I relieved Thom at the cash register, ignored the stares of sensation seekers, and was so pleasant, the staff obviously thought I'd galloped off the ranch.

No. I had solved the phone mystery, and I'd broken the caller. I had established that I didn't give a spit about Lydia, and that “Queen Solomon” was reserving judgment on Stacie. It had been a good uptick. I was determined to stretch it to an hour of goodness.

I watched as dishes were filled and emptied, customers stood and sat, came and went, chewed and swallowed. Thom was wiping off the menus with antibacterial solution. And a full five minutes went by before my absentminded serenity was interrupted by a courteous-faced Luke.

“Hey, Nash?”

“Hey, Luke. Guess what?”

“What?”

“You can have your open mic night. How's Monday sound?”

“I can't.”

That soured my mood a little. I'd just given the kid what he wanted. “Why can't you?” I asked.

“I, uh . . . I have a date. That's what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Your dating life? I thought you had your groupies under control.” That amounted to two gals, who I suspected were underage and just hung around for the free beer.

“Yeah, well . . . see, I've kind of been seeing Dani.”

“Our Dani?”

“Who else's?”

“Right. But she's only been here for . . .” And then it hit me. “You told her to come here. In fact, you encouraged me to hire her.”

“We wanted to be close and sync up our scheds.”

“That's how she knew my nickname was Nashville Katz.”

He looked way guilty.

I wasn't annoyed. In fact, the two of them had more smarts than I'd given them credit for. “Nicely done. I'd never have guessed.”

“No one did. Not even Thom.” He grinned. “We put one over big-time, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“The thing is, she's upset now.”

“Why?”

“She thinks you hate her because she keeps messing up.”

“I don't hate her for that,” I said.

“You wanted to fire her.”

“Yes. Because, like you say, she keeps messing up. But she's got another chance now, right?”

“She does. I just . . . Would you tell her it's okay?”

“What is?”

“Her and you. Your relationship.”

“Luke, we don't have a relationship. I'm her boss.”

“Yeah, but
we
have a relationship, you and me. We're friends, right?”

There was a certain skewed logic to that. “Sure. Right.”

“So can you try and be friends with her?”

“Fine. I'll try.”

“Like, now?”

“This second?”

“She's afraid and worried and scared.”

“Those are all kind of the same thing.”

“I think you should smoke a peace pipe. Please. For me.”

My perfect hour was doomed not to reach maturity. “For you, Luke. Send her over.”

He practically leaped back to the kitchen, where Dani had been hiding on her break. She came out like Chris Evert when she lost that big one to Billie Jean King in 1971, the match that broke her forty-six-game winning streak. I wasn't alive then, but I had watched it on VHS when I was a kid. That was during the five minutes I thought of becoming a professional tennis player, except that I had no backhand, forehand, or serve.

Long way of saying I knew “beaten” when I saw it.

“Hi,” I said when she had managed to schlep over.

“Hi.”

“Straighten up,” I said, sounding like my mother. I added, as she never would have, “You're not letting anyone see your pretty eyes.”

That perked her up a little. She wriggled her shoulders back, like a belly dancer with clothes on.

“Much better. So. I hear you've been dating Luke.”