A Killer in the Rye (13 page)

Authors: Delia Rosen

BOOK: A Killer in the Rye

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“I love him.”

I let that pass. I was in the minority today when it came to women loving men at first sight. I couldn't even get one of them to take me home for a recreational hoedown.

“Well,” I went on, “Luke's a little worried that our tiny dustups are going to impact your relationship.”

“He's so sweet!”

“Yeah, he is. And I want you to know that that's not the case. He also tells me he's worried that you're worried that I'm going to fire you. I want to assure you that that's also not the case.”

“I'm so glad to hear that!” she said. “You were pretty upset before.”

“I've been pretty upset since I stepped in that pool of human blood. I think you can understand that.”

“I've never done that myself.”

“And I hope you never have to. You've been doing a good job here. I watched you bus before. You've got natural talent.”

“Really?”

“Really. And no one's complained, at least not that I've heard.”

“No one has,” she said eagerly. “Except those three ladies that first day.”

“That doesn't count. They're pills. We don't care what they say.”

“I know, right?”

“Right. I'll tell you what. Why don't we start fresh? I'll try harder, you try harder, and we won't have to yell or be hurt or threaten anymore. Deal?” I offered a big smile across the countertop, then turned to process a credit card A.J. had brought over. A.J. was looking a little sour. Tragically, my new dÃ©tente wasn't going to spread throughout the civilized world. I wasn't gonna teach the world to sing in perfect harmony.

“It's a deal,” Dani said, happier than I could remember ever having seen a young woman. I felt like the Pope blessing an acolyte. It felt good. Maybe the full-hour uptick was still achievable.

Customers came and went, more than usual for a late weekend afternoon. Unfamiliar faces. Looking at me, looking at the kitchen, pointing. Asking if they could go to the back, being told there was no access except through the store or a narrow alley with a gate that they wouldn't be able to open, because I'd put a cinder block behind it and it was going to stay there except for garbage pickup and deliveries.

People got the message. They weren't going back there to look at the murder site. Not even for the twenty that one guy tried to slip me to impress his date.

I noted the hour mark with a private spin of a mental Purim
grogger
and told everyone I'd be back at about half past five. I was sure they were beginning to wonder if I'd ever work a full day again.

At 4:45 I was sitting comfortably in the soft white pedicure chair, thumbing through the latest celebrity gossip magazine. I was daydreaming about who would play me in a movieâI settled on Natalie Portman, even though she was hit and miss and made her best movie,
The Professional,
when she was about thirteenâwhen someone passed by the shop window, stopped, and stared.

“You know lady?” Mei asked.

“What lady?”

“One outside.” Mei pointed with an emery board.

I caught only a glimpse of her as she quickly turned and hurried out of view. She was dressed in well-worn jeans and a button-down blue shirt. She had long brown hair, stood about five-sevenâa little taller than meâand was skinnier than anyone who had ever ordered a pastrami sandwich.

But the thing that really grabbed me was her expression. Not her face so much, which didn't shine with anything familiar, but the hungry, restless look of a woman who was searching for something.

I did not get up. I did not intend to give chase. I didn't know
what
I intended to do or what I felt or thought, other than to finish my session here.

Though it was with a combination of rage and curiosity that I said to myself before burying myself back in the
National Enquirer
:

“So that was Stacie.”

Chapter 13

What I had to do after I left the nail salon was drive over to Robert Reid's house.

Cars were beginning to fill the sweeping driveway, and I followed the trail of Murray's employees to the back door.

I found Thomasina running the operation like George S. Patton.

“How's it going?” I asked.

“I thought you weren't coming,” she said.

I shrugged.

“The working of your mind baffles me,” she said.

“I baffle myself,” I answered.

I wandered in, pretending to have something to do, checking plates that didn't need checking. I made my way into the kitchen, where I had a good memory to relive. I relived it. I heard Robert's voice coming from the dining room.

“As I helped the governor up, I said, âSir, you were supposed to take a stand, not the entire podium!'”

A small group of people laughed. Maybe a little more forcefully than the joke deserved. I couldn't tell; the punch line was amusing enough. I didn't laugh. My face was locked in place. I felt isolated, not just from him but from a world that included governors and people who laughed at jokes. I wanted to show myself in the adjoining doorway, just back against the swinging door and pretend to be doing something else. Let him see me to see how he would react.

I decided against it. What would he do? Either say a platonic hi or ignore me, because he was in social anchor mode. I didn't want either of those. I didn't know what I wanted. I found myself missing Grant just then, which not only wasn't fair to him but also made no sense. I didn't want to be with Grant.

I don't know what I want, except that I just don't want to be so damn alone.

I didn't even feel like I had the memory of my father anymore, sketchy as that relationship was. Whatever I thought we had down here, he'd been holding himself back for another woman.

“Didn't Reagan say something about a podium?” some woman asked.

“That was the nineteen eighty New Hampshire primary,” Robert said. “And it was a microphone. The candidate was trying to explain something when the editor of the
Nashua Telegraph
told the soundman to turn off Reagan's microphone. Reagan was angry and said, âI am paying for this microphone!'”

“Yes, that was it,” the woman said.

“But how do you remember that?” someone else said. “You were only what? Three?”

“It's called an education,” Robert quipped.

There was more laughter. I wondered if the speaker even realized he'd been insulted.

Talking about politicians sounds interesting, though,
I thought.
For that matter, talking about anything but the deli and inventory and employees and dead bodies would be fun.

In the non sequitur that was driving my train of thought, thinking about bread man Joe made me needle-drop on Brenda Silvio, alone and about as lost as a human being could be. Even my mother, when my father left, pulled up her socks and refused to be depressedâat least on the outside. I wondered what, if anything, was going through this woman's brain. I wondered if I'd judged her too harshly. And, curiously, I wondered the same thing about Lydia. I mean, did it make any sense that I was ready to feel bad for a woman whose husband was murdered but not for a woman who had the misfortune to fall in love with a charming, intelligent, good-looking man who was nonetheless halfway to deadbeatâmy dad?

Why does everything have to be so complicated?

Why did my brain have to be so baffling? Was it every woman's brain?
No, Thom is stable. She has her church, she has a stable home life, and she was still able to raise a kid that wasn't even her own!

Was I more like Dani than I wanted to acknowledge? Is that why I beat up on her? I don't mean the naive, sheltered airhead part, but the lonely girl who wanted a man at the center of her life, even if the fit was obviously flawed and probably wrong. I didn't know much about her, but I knew that her parents were divorced. I'd overheard Luke mention that.

I wasn't going to answer that now. But A.J. Two had been right about one thing. I needed to take a harder look at the things that were troubling me.

I decided to leave before Robert or anyone else saw me. I reminded myself about the reason for the committee meeting. I was thinking clearly enough to know that being here would be perceived as trying to curry favor instead of curry sauce. I had planned on staying in my office when the luncheon was going to be held at the deli.

I thanked Thom and Dani and Luke and A.J.s One and Two for doing a good job and took off. When I thanked Luke, I noticed him wink back at Dani.

Good for them,
I thought. Whether it lasted a week or a month or a lifetime, what they had at this moment was working. It was special. It was theirs.

I got back to the deli at 7:30. I microwaved a potato knish, homemade, using my uncle's personal recipe. They were one of the few menu items I made myself. It hit the spot, not just hunger-wise but comfort-wise. I felt like a kid again, at that Coney Island I was missing. I washed it down with burnt, reheated coffeeâanother taste of New Yorkâjust in time for the arrival of Scott Ferguson.

Dani was right: even under the shadowy light of a streetlamp, he
did
look like Bill Roche. Enough to be his brother. I made him out to be early to midtwenties. He was a little over six feet, big shoulders, slightly bowed legs.

I snatched my keys from where I'd plunked them beside the cash register, unlocked the door, and held out my hand.

He went to shake it.

“Uh-uh,” I said. I held it out more insistently.

He seemed puzzled. Then he remembered. He reached into what I now saw was a Nashville High football jacket and retrieved my phone. It was dead.

“What would you have done if it hadn't been fully charged?” I asked him.

He reached into his other pocket and gave me the charger. The kid was thorough.

“Come in,” I said.

“Thanks.”

We didn't introduce ourselves. We knew who we were, and I didn't feel like it.

I put the keys and cell phone by the cash register. I didn't lock the door, in case the kid was crazy or a killer. Given the way things had been going, I wasn't willing to rule anything out.
Were those traces of dog hair on his jacket?

Now that I had a better look at him, he seemed less photogenic than Bill Roche. He had a two-day growth of stubble, there were charcoal-colored patches under his eyes, and his longish hair looked a little greasy. He also smelled of seasoning.

“Which of my competitors do you work for?” I asked as I motioned to a table. “The Blue Elephant?”

His dull eyes showed signs of life. “How do you know that? Did you go to my Facebook page?”

Lord, what is it with kids and social networking?
“No. I've got a good nose. Your boss, Singh, is up for the same Best Mid-Range Restaurant in Nashville Award.”

“Oh, yes,” the kid said as he sat heavily, gracelessly, like he was in his own kitchen. “He said something about that.”

“Really? How bad does he want to win it?”

“What?”

Bad enough to try and pin a murder on me? Does he have a dog?

I was confusing the young man, who already looked a little out of it, so I didn't ask those questions but got back on topic. “Tell me something. Does Stacie know about me?”

“She does.”

“Would she be stalking me?”

He seemed surprised. “She's not like that.”

“Then why did I see herâat least, I'm pretty sure it was herâoutside the nail salon before?”

“Stacie?”

I described her.

He nodded. “That sounds like her.”

“So I repeat. Would she have been stalking me?”

“I might have mentioned you were going out. I guess she was curious. Was it about four?”

“Yeah.”

“That's when she gets off work. She works at a day-care center, watching kids. Her shift's from seven a.m. to four.”

The irony of that was rich and sad.

“So she got off work and stood somewhere outside and watched for me to go. And followed me. That's what stalking is.”

“That may be, but I'm not sure she was dead set on meeting you, and I'm also saying that's not who she is. She's not crazy.”

“Scott, everyone's crazy. It's just that what brings it out is different for everyone. Like you, for instance.”

He looked at me, hurt and puzzled.

“Why the secrecy about your name, about this whole process? Stealing my phone when you could've just asked to talk to me. Wasn't that a little crazy?”

“No. I thought about that. I was concerned because I knew what Lydia was planning on doing, and I wasn't sure how to handle it. I wasn't sure how you'd react. I thought if I had some control over the situationâ”

“All right. Never mind,” I said. I didn't have time for mea culpas. “Let's agree that she was curious. What's so important? Why does Stacie need two kinds of help?”

“Lydia wants to get her away from here, and I want to help her to stay.”

“Because . . . ?”

The kid didn't look like my father. My guess was he was her half brother by some other guy or he was in love with her. I was leaning toward the latter. Lydia would have had to be pretty busy to birth two kids the same age by different men.

Ah, another burst of love in bloom.
God save me from my own cynicism.

“Go on,” I said. “Can I get you warmed-over coffee? I'm going to get a refill.”

“No, I'm good,” he said. He folded his hands in front of him, seemed to be praying as I poured more black coffee in my
I'M THE BOSS
mug.

“You were saying?” I stated, pressing.

He sighed. “She and I have been together for two years now. I proposed to her six months ago outside the Life and Casualty Tower on Church Street.”

“Congratulations.” I think I meant it.

“Thanks.”

“Does Lydia approve?”

He nodded. I wasn't expecting that. I sat across from him. “Okay, back up the truck. I thought you and Lydia were at odds.”

“We are,” he said. “About what to do about it.”

“About what to do about what
it?
”

He took a long, tremulous breath. He was slumping forward now, actually leaning on his elbows. “Say, you have anything to drink?”

“I'm guessing you don't mean ice water.”

“A beer?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

I went behind the counter to the fridge. We didn't have a liquor license, but it was after hours and he wasn't a paying customer. I twisted the cap off an Amstel Light and set it in front of him. He put his hand around it, held it for a second, then took a swallow. He aahed and set it back down.

“You were saying?”

He didn't look at me as he said, “I believe Stacie's having an affair.”

I stared at his forehead, trying to pull his eyes to mine. He couldn't look at me, couldn't look up, couldn't do anything but take another swig of beer and then go back to his walking dead state.

“What makes you think that?” I asked.

“We live together in a one-bedroom apartment in Antioch,” he said. “Starting a couple months back, she disappears for hours at a time. Says she's got babysitting gigs and comes back smelling like cologne.”

“Yeah. Not a lot of babies use the stuff.”

“I know.”

Note to self: no sense of humor.
Either that, or the kid was really, really morose.

“After about four months of this I followed her to a house,” he said. “A real good house in Hendersonville. You know the area?”

“I know it.”
Please don't say what I don't want to hear,
I thought.

“Nice, right?”

“Very. And?”
More teeth pulling. Is everyone in my life suddenly becoming incapable of speaking in complete, informative sentences?

“I checked the mail in the mailbox. A single dude owns it.”

“His name?” My stomach was twisting.

“Stephen R. Hatfield.”