by Delia Rosen
“Talking to your friend.”
“I hear that. On whose authority?”
“My own,” he said.
“Your own. Where in the regulations is ‘your own authority’ a reason to interrogate a suspect?”
I stared up at him like I was looking at Bernini’s David in human form, all heroic and stern but with clothes on.
“Detective, I was following up on—”
“A family matter?”
“I thought she might have remembered something—”
“First of all, this is not your case. Second, you can’t just call someone and go fishing! She’s a victim here, too. You know better, don’t you?”
“Ordinarily, but I’m under emotional duress.”
That line was a buzzword for internal affairs, in case I pressed charges.
“Then I suggest you stick to supporting your family at this time and stop trying to do police work. Clear?”
“Clear, sir.”
Grant punched off the speaker, then looked down at me.
“Gwennie, you okay?”
“Your slingshot saved me.”
“What?”
“Not important,” I said.
Grant’s cologne smelled better than ever as I stood and let him hold me. Just for a second. I was on duty, too. No back-room shenanigans.
“Thank you, Grant. Good timing, as usual.” I frowned. “Wait, why are you here?”
“Just checking on you,” he said.
After the protective rant, that sounded ominously insincere.
“Grant, what is it? Hold on. You said . . . Am I a suspect?”
He hesitated. “No.”
“Just no? Not ‘No way in hell, Gwennie. What ever, ever made you think that stupid, insane thought?’”
“You saw how it is.” He dipped his forehead at the phone. “You’re going to feel like one until we wrap this up.”
“What about the grieving widow? Maybe she had something to gain, like an insurance payout. I hear a lot of my suppliers aren’t doing so good.”
“We’ll get to her when the time is right,” he said. “She’s being tranquilized.”
“I’ll bet, to keep her from spilling her guts,” I said. “Maybe hubby dearest had a girlfriend. Maybe he had a boyfriend. Maybe his wife did. Maybe someone was trying to corner the bread market.”
“Gwen—”
“Don’t! Jesus, Grant, I am a suspect!”
“You’re not—”
“What happened to the Bill of Freakin’ Rights?”
“Dani got a hold of it,” he quipped.
I grinned. It felt good. We needed that tension breaker. “You’re still innocent until proven otherwise,” he went on, “but I had a feeling that something like this was going to happen. They’re going to rally around Jason, try their best to make you buckle.”
“Grant, I didn’t do it!”
“I know, but . . . they give everyone a course in the psychology of homicide, and part of it is to keep witnesses in the zone, so to speak. Keep them reliving the crime, the fear, the disorientation. That helps them remember details. Sometimes days later, sometimes weeks.”
“Weeks? You’re going to let them ride me?”
“I can’t be everywhere,” Grant said. “That’s one of the three reasons I came here. I just got this vibe at the station house. I wanted to let you know that it isn’t personal. Not even with Jason.”
“That’s so not reassuring.” I made a face. “What are the other two reasons you came here? Do I even want to know?”
“Well, the second was to see how you are—”
“Skip that one.”
“And the third was to tell you good news. The victim had his throat gouged, obviously, and there’re traces of canine saliva near the wound.”
“Maybe he stopped to pet a dog—”
“It was on the surface of the blood.”
“Ah. That explains my sudden urge to sneeze all over the corpse. I’m allergic to them.”
“I know. Since you don’t have any dogs, we’re having to look in different directions for motive and suspect.”
I stood upright, like I’d been kicked in the tush by a mule. “Different? You’re saying I was a suspect!”
“No—”
“Yes! Of course! A guy I’ve spoken to on the phone is late with my bread, so I’m gonna go all Vampire Diaries on his throat. Makes complete sense.”
“You’re not being fair,” Grant said. “You knew all of that, but we didn’t. We had to confirm it. That’s why it’s called an investigation.”
I calmed down. He was right. I was just Bathsheba having a very bad day.
“We good?” he asked.
“We’re good,” I said. “So a dog killed him.”
“Well, no.”
I looked into his eyes, all strong and steady, while mine suddenly still itched. “What then? A werewolf?”
He smiled. “What I mean is, there are no traces of dog other than what was probably a short series of licks. He died from multiple stab wounds.”
“What? And Old Yeller just happened along, drawn by the smell of freshly baked bread and an open jugular?”
“We don’t know,” Grant said. “We’re going over the impounded truck and talking to Metro Animal Care and Control. Still putting it all together.”
“What about that rye bread up front?” I asked as the whole vignette came back in an ugly flash.
“Probably got knocked forward. They were on the bottom shelf.”
“So the killer came in through the back?”
“Or left that way. Or it was the dog. Or the truck was shaking hard from a struggle. We just don’t know yet.”
“But you’ve ruled out it being a message.”
“What kind of message?”
“You know, like ‘Joe sleeps with the genetically engineered grains.’”
“We don’t think so,” he replied.
I took a moment to digest it all. That was sure one hell of a roller-coaster five minutes. Thinking of digestion made me realize how hungry I was.
“I’m going to get something to eat,” I said. “Want something?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Wait here. I’ll bring it back.”
I left the office to quickly throw together a simple spread, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat anything more than some leftover matzo ball soup. I don’t know if it was nerves or just the image of raw human meat branded in my brain.
Grant’s cell went off midway through his pastrami on a sun-dried tomato wrap. It was the precinct. I stood to get him a to-go box.
“Anything?” I asked when I returned.
“A domestic squabble,” he said. “At Jason’s house.”
Sweet Baby James. “I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it.
“How about some Chinese and a Blu-ray tonight?” he asked as I walked him to the door.
“Danny boy, I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but I just kinda want to be alone.”
He shrugged off a little bit of hurt. “Whatever you need.”
“I appreciate it, Grant.”
“Including some Clairol. I’m not certain orange is your color.”
“Long story.”
“I’m just looking out for you,” he said. “Someone might mistake you for Rita Hayworth’s daughter.”
If we hadn’t been in the dining room, I’d’ve kissed him. He knew it. He winked. I smiled. He left.
I needed a quick break, a moment to get my feet under me again. I turned to Old Reliable, who was making change.
“Thom, I’ll be back before the early dinner rush. We okay with the catering?”
“If we’re not, butts will be torched.”
I went back to the office, got my bag, and set out, ignoring the eyes on me, the thought bubbles I could practically read above the heads of my customers. I was a suspect; I wasn’t a suspect; Cujo was to blame. I’d had enough. It was definitely time to take my life back. I just needed to meet with
someone head-on, face-to-face. To clear my account with them and restore my good name.
I started walking, suddenly aware that my calf muscles were sore. Of course they were. I hadn’t really walked on pavement for a lot of blocks for nearly a year. As I picked my way through another sunshiny day, I called 411. I still hadn’t learned how to work my phone’s GPS. And though I didn’t have the heart to tell Grant, my eyes couldn’t tell the difference between a Blu-ray disc and a VHS tape. The heartbreak of being a Luddite.
“Four-one-one. City and state, please,” the female operator said.
“Nashville, Tennessee,” I responded.
“What listing?”
“McCoy’s Bakery,” I answered, over-pronouncing the words. “I believe it’s somewhere off of Demonbreun Street.”
That’s what comes from online bill paying. No envelopes, no writing an address, no idea where you’re going.
“One moment please.”
“Listen, I just want the—”
Too late. The operator switched to the automated phone number provider before I had a chance to request just the address.
“The number you are looking for is, area code six-one-five-five-five-five-six-two-oh-three. To dial directly for an additional charge, press one, or just stay on the line.”
I could barely remember what day it was—Saturday, I realized from the number of families on the street who were not churchgoers, which would have made it Sunday. I could barely remember that, let alone a phone number. I sucked it up and accepted the charge. I just needed to know where I was headed. After two rings, someone answered.
“McCoy’s Bakery, where all your kneads are met. This is Eric.”
“Hi ya, Eric.” I put on my best random customer voice. “I was just wondering where exactly you’re located.”
“We’re in downtown Nashville, ma’am.”
“Yes. Where exactly, though?”
“Between the dry cleaners and Enslin’s Auto Parts.”
“Okay, Eric,” I said, my character starting to fade. “I’m looking for the street address.”
“We’re at three-oh-four Sixth Avenue South.”
“Thank you very much,” I said and hung up. And realized that my name had probably appeared on their caller ID gadget thing. Hopefully, the little LED letters would evaporate before anyone with Brain One could see them and remember who I was.
I continued walking south the few additional blocks toward Sixth South. There was a slight breeze. It felt sweet. Few things had in the last thirty-six hours.
Except Heston and those miles of flesh-eating ants, I thought. His tsuris seemed a little worse than mine.
“Three-oh-four, three-oh-four,” I kept repeating as I neared Sixth.
And suddenly there it was, McCoy’s Bakery, a one-story brick building sandwiched between greasy car parts and clean sheets. There was something unsettling about the weird juxtaposition. It was like bad geometry, lines that didn’t match. Was the universe trying to tell me something, like this was probably a bad idea?
“Do what needs doin’,” I said, repeating one of Thom’s frequent admonitions under my breath.
As I reached for the door handle, I pulled when I should have pushed. That was my last warning, apparently. I pushed and entered.
Several customers were being helped one at a time by the sole employee, who was calling numbers on those little machine-dispensed slips of paper. I reached for my number and pulled the paper from the red plastic spool.
I was number forty-nine. The glowing number counter on the wall said forty-five.
Since I wasn’t there to buy bread, I wasn’t sure I needed a number, but I decided to wait my turn. That way I would have the employee’s full attention and would not annoy, too much, whoever had the next number.
As I watched the tall, red-haired kid behind the counter slowly assist each customer, I was reminded of a bakery joke my uncle used to tell:
An alien lands on Earth, walks into a bakery, and asks the owner, “Excuse me, earthling. What are these miniature wheels for?”
“Oh, they’re not wheels,” the baker responds. “They’re bagels.”
Confused, the alien purchases one and takes a bite. The alien’s eyes grow wide. “Wow!” he says to the baker. “These would go great with cream cheese and lox!”
Uncle Murray was a card. But it was an ace. Thinking of Officer McCoy made me miss my own support circle, of which Murray was a big part, especially after my folks died.
“Number forty-nine? Forty-nine?”
“Here!” I made my way to the display case filled with pastries and rolls.
“How can I help you?”
“Brenda’s not in today, is she?”
“Negative. She’s dealing with some personal stuff.”
“May I speak with a manager?”
“We don’t have one, really. I mean, you may have heard what happened?”
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, so it’s just me and Eric today, and he’s back there baking right now.”
“You gonna order?” someone behind me asked.
“Give me a bagel with schmear,” I said.
“With what?”
“Cream cheese.”
“What kind of bagel?”
“Raisin.”
“We only have plain and onion.”
Of course you do. “Plain,” I said.
“How is Brenda taking all this?” I asked.
“Bad,” he said as he sliced the bagel.
“Understandable. It happened during a delivery?”
“Yeah.”
“At a deli, I heard.”
“Yeah.”
“Who do you think is responsible?”
The kid finished spreading a thin, gentile layer of cream cheese and started wrapping the bagel in tinfoil—not wax paper. “I don’t know,” he said.
“What does Brenda think?”
“That’ll be a dollar fifty,” he said.
I gave him a credit card to buy some time. I heard a groan from the small group behind me.
“I don’t know what she thinks,” the boy said as he waited for the receipt to print. “All I know is I went looking for the meat cleaver yesterday to divvy the dough and it was gone. I mentioned it to her, and she said not to worry about it.”
“Really? Where do you think it went?”
He put the receipt on the counter with a pen. He was looking at me a little funny.
“I think she took it for protection,” he said. “I think she’s nervous.”
“Lady, you’re gonna need protection if you don’t sign the goddamn bill!” someone shouted.
So much for kind and patient Nashvillians. I signed.
“Say, do I know you?” the kid asked suddenly.
“No,” I replied.
“Yes,” he disagreed. “I saw you on TV this morning.”
“That isn’t exactly knowing—”
“You were on the news.”
“Hey, you watch TV?” I said. “I was under the impression kids watched everything on their cell phones.”
“It was on in the back room,” he said. “Yeah, you were on with Candy Sommerton.”
“No,” I said. Truth was, I was on Candy Sommerton. I turned to find myself blocked in by five cross-looking patrons. I started to push my way through.
“Yes,” the boy said. “You were on the sidewalk. She was yelling at you!”
“That was some other deli owner,” I said, then swore. I was nearly at the door, but I had forgotten my bagel. It wasn’t that I needed it or even wanted it; I had to have it. Just to make a statement that no mob was going to push me around. I started digging my way back. Old Man Number Fifty was asking to be served now. He scowled at me as I thrust an arm in front of him to grab the paper bag. I glowered right back.
You don’t mess with a New Yorker. And that’s what I was, wherever I happened to be living.
As I walked back toward Murray’s, I stopped at a convenience store a
nd bought myself a fresh pack of Natural American Spirits. I tore the cellophane off, pulled one out, and lit a match.
Glowering? Walking the streets? Smoking? Was I secretly despising the transplant I’d become? Was I trying to destroy myself in an unhealthy, angry blast of blaming it on the dead deliveryman? And then the dreadful thought occurred to me.
I really miss who I used to be.
Maybe it was the stress talking, but I had to fight tears as I ignored the disapproving faces and waving hands of everyone who caught a cloud of my smoke.
Chapter 6
Okay, I was officially having an identity crisis.
There was no denying it. I was the one who stood out down here. The one who didn’t have a Southern accent. The one person who’d been to the Met and Carnegie Hall but not to the Grand Ole Opry. I was allowed to live here, to give orders to Thom, because my father and uncle were on the inside.
I looked down at the clutter on my office desk, specifically at the crinkled color photo I’d found stuffed in the back of my top desk drawer when I first arrived. It was of my uncle Murray, comfortable in his element, with a guitar in his hands, a smoke dangling from his lips, and another behind his ear, and he was staring right at the camera, at the picture taker. The flashbulb reflected off the sweaty sheen on his forehead and the lenses of his glasses. A couple of girls were glancing sidelong, curious but otherwise disinterested in the wannabe songster sitting at a table in the apparently sleazy nightclub.
Despite terrible audience reviews and very little interest from the industry, at least Murray had spent his free time doing what he really wanted to. Just being himself before he had to get practical and earn money. And here I was, taking a hard look at myself, and all I could think of was that I really should get a frame for the photo, instead of having it pinned to a corkboard with a pushpin. Was that the extent of my desires?
And then there was Detective Grant Daniels. He’d given me all the love and attention one could hope for from a full-time detective. He just wasn’t giving me what I really needed, what I really craved, what most divorced women in their thirties wanted: a second chance at an exciting life that was shared, not catch as catch can. I had spent my first marriage worrying about pleasing a man. Now I wanted someone to pay attention to me, to satisfy me emotionally.