by Delia Rosen
I believed her. It wasn’t just her passion—which she obviously had an abundance of when properly motivated by a man or child—but I reminded myself that when we spoke, she didn’t ask for anything for herself.
“Let’s table that for now,” I said. “I have a question for you.”
“You haven’t answered mine.”
“He told me about their engagement and their love for one another. Is that true?”
“Yes,” she barked.
“He told me he thinks she’s having an affair. Is that true?”
“We think she is, yes,” the woman said. She wasn’t quite so huffy about that. It obviously hurt.
“The guy you think she’s seeing is named Stephen Hatfield. Also true?”
She nodded.
“That’s pretty much all he told me, so here’s my question for you. Did you come to the deli to see me?”
“Of course—”
“I mean the first time,” I said.
“Why else?”
I moved a little closer. The fluorescent lights weren’t the brightest, and I wanted to see her eyes. “Is there any part of your brain that is the tiniest bit worried that her lover put her up to murdering Joe Silvio, wife of Brenda Silvio, née McCoy?”
Her knees swayed like she was doing the Charleston. I stepped forward and steadied her as a noodly arm went out to the side. She shut her eyes. With an arm around her waist, I opened the back door of my car and helped her sit. I stepped back, looking down at her.
“There’s a water in the well between the two front seats,” I said.
She leaned on the back of the driver’s seat to retrieve it. She popped the cap and took a long drink.
“Let me ask that question another way,” I said. “Do you have reason to believe that Stacie did do it?”
She shook her head, still drinking from the plastic bottle. I waited for her to finish.
“There is bad blood between these Hatfields and McCoys,” Lydia said. “It has nothing to do with the old disagreements.”
“I should hope not, after more than a century.”
Lydia looked surprised. “It’s been more than a century and a half since the start of the War Between the States. Folks down here are still sore about that.”
Score one for the lady in black. “So what is this bad blood about?”
“There have been articles in the newspaper about Hatfield trying to buy the lot that McCoy’s Bakery is on. It’s the only spot on that street he doesn’t own.”
“And Brenda didn’t want to sell.”
“Worse than that,” she said. “I was doing a little online research. There is a Web site, Justia, that lets you look up legal documents. McCoy’s had just filed a lawsuit accusing him of trying to monopolize the bread business. Seems there are two other bakeries among his holdings, one in Brentwood and another in Mt. Juliet.”
That would be Sam’s and Alexander’s Ragtime Bread. “So we’ve got what? Antitrust and unfair business practices?”
“Were you an attorney up north?”
That made me mad. I was already studying accounting when my dad died. He obviously hadn’t felt that was worth mentioning to his hump puppet. Or maybe he himself forgot. All of those possibilities stank.
“No, an accountant,” I said as calmly as I could. “Working on Wall Street, those are just terms you get familiar with.” I ticked through the beat points of this thing. “So you wanted money to get Stacie out of town in case she’s involved somehow.”
“Yes. Oh God, she’s been a sad girl but never a violent one. I don’t think she’s a killer, Gwen.”
I still hated hearing my name come from her mouth.
“But you’re afraid someone around Hatfield is a bad guy and she may get dragged in or endangered in some way.”
“Yes.”
“Dumb question, Lydia. Why haven’t you had this talk with Stacie?”
The woman looked down at her feet. “She found out about the adoption.”
“How?”
“There was a letter,” she said. “It was stuck in a family Bible, of all things. I left it there, I suppose, when I was praying for guidance about the baby. Stacie took it from the top shelf after Scott proposed. She was thinking that it would be fun to have the preacher use a family heirloom.”
“Do you think seeing Hatfield came as a result of that?”
“I wondered about that,” she said. “I cannot dismiss it. She was hurt and upset and wanted to lash out. I think she felt like she was worthless.”
“Not quite worthless,” I pointed out. “Someone was willing to pay thirty grand.”
“Except that they didn’t,” Lydia said. “That was a letter from the agency, saying the couple had changed their mind. When they did, I did, too. When she read the letter, Stacie was hysterical. It was bad enough to learn about it that way, but she kept screamin’, ‘I’m not worth anything. They didn’t even want me!’ I tried to tell her that Scott wanted her, but she kept cryin’ and sayin’ things about him bein’ poor and that maybe they’d have to give away their baby if they ever had one. I tell you, she wasn’t thinkin’ clear.”
“I don’t blame her!”
“No,” Lydia agreed. “That’s partly what I’ve been tryin’ to explain. My girl ain’t thinkin’ clear. Scott may think you can talk to her, get her away from Hatfield. Maybe so. That would be wonderful. But I’m not so sure, and my concern is for her safety.”
“Quick question,” I said. “Does Hatfield own dogs?”
She had recovered sufficiently to scowl at me. “What is your fascination with dogs?”
I told her about the canine traces in the truck. Grant hadn’t said it was confidential, and this might help move the investigation forward.
“Oh,” Lydia said. It was a tiny, awful little sound.
“What?”
“I saw, in the Justia listing, that his holdings also include the Whippy Whippet Dog Obedience Schools.”
I had seen their ads on late-night TV. They had one of the worst slogans I’d ever heard, uttered by a badly animated computer-generated dog: “If you can’t beat it, whippet!” The ads mostly featured hunters and outdoorsmen who looked like they’d beat their dogs.
“That’s great,” I said.
“Really?”
“No,” I said. “I thought maybe I could actually rule him out.”
“Are you trying to find the killer on your own?” Lydia asked.
Lydia turned away, reached into her bag, and fished around. She emerged with a tissue. She dabbed her dry eyes—this lady was strange—then rose unsteadily, and I offered her my hand. My newly manicured nails made her hardened fingertips seem even sadder.
“Not as such,” I said. “I’m sort of friends with the head investigator. Just lifting up rocks, seeing what’s under there that might help.”
“Part of me believes he is quite capable of murder, that he is a monster.”
“Which part of you believes that?” I asked.
“The overly protective mother, I suppose.” She pursed her lips. “Please think about what I asked before. She responds to money. That might be the hook we need to get her out of this.”
She didn’t say it, but my astute, paranoid ears could’ve sworn they heard, “Like all you people” at the end of “She responds to money.” I hoped to high holy heaven I was wrong.
Lydia sniffled back hidden tears, then turned and made her lengthy exit back down the parking lot stairs. I just stood there watching her descend. She never looked back.
I got in the car and drove down the ramp, trying not to look at her as I passed. Maybe I should’ve offered her a lift, but I didn’t want to. I was already more involved with her than I had expected, desired, or wanted to think about. The whole thing stank. My father’s mistress, whom I met because someone was killed by my loading area. What good karma was hidden anywhere in that log-line? On top of which, I had a deli to run and a staff in whose lives I was involved and men who had relationship mishugas
that didn’t seem to match my own meshuga needs. Why did I need to take on three more nutcases?
Because, like all the mountains in your life, they’re there.
More than that, though, I had a feeling—I don’t know why—that somewhere through this was the exit sign to the whole matter of Mr. Silvio and his ripped-up throat.
With rush hour long over, the ride home was even quicker than usual. Only as I got out of the car and the light came on did I see that there was a brown paper bag poking from the well with the water bottle.
I picked it up. It wasn’t very heavy. I realized that Lydia must have placed it there when she went into her purse and came out with a tissue. I thought that had taken a little longer than it should have.
I felt fairly comfortable ruling out an explosive device. I unrolled the top of the bag and spilled the contents onto the seat. Out spilled a small stack of photographs and scraps of paper. I wish I could say I had a sentimental “Oh God” moment, but I didn’t. I think I was probably protecting myself. I put my knees against the seat and fingered through the messy pile.
They were old images. There was a photo of young Lydia outside with baby Stacie, presumably. My father was sitting on a lawn chair in the background. The next photo was taken earlier, when Lydia was pregnant with Stacie, again presumably. One hand was on her belly, and the other was being used to shield her eyes from the flash. There was a school photograph of Stacie wearing a black blouse and black barrettes in her hair, and she was smiling. She looked to be around seven years old and was seemingly content with her young life.
After that the photos predated my half sister. They were black-and-white images of strangers, who, I could only assume, were my distant half relatives. The pictures showed the usual stuff, mustached men standing in yards in front of houses, bored and tolerant women humoring the photographer, and children thrilled by the modern advancements of film technology, their clothes nothing more than shapeless fabric with buttons.
I flipped over several of the photos, hoping they would offer up some clues as to who these people were and why Lydia wanted me to see them. Only one had writing on the back, an antique picture of a tall young man with a big cowboy hat and one of those stubby neckties that were popular in the late 1800s, his giant hands hanging at his sides, his rugged suit almost resembling Herman Munster’s. The man stared deeply into the heart of the camera, the mighty sun casting deep shadows on his face from the brow down to his cheeks. In pencil, on the back, was written “Devil Anse.”
Oh. Maybe the pictures weren’t for me.
Well, I’m not sure how I feel about being a messenger. I didn’t know if I wanted the responsibility for any of this.
Now that I thought about it, consciousness itself was no longer a responsibility I wished to bear.
I fed the cats their usual fare and looked in my fridge for mine. It was practically empty, save for half a garlic clove and some leftover Chinese food from a few nights before Joe Silvio died. I closed the fridge door and leaned both my hands and stiff arms on the kitchen counter, clicking the tip of my tongue off the inside of my bottom lip.
I’d heard about this new pizza place in Five Points and decided one more junky meal would do me good. Gathering up my second wind, I put my jacket back on and got back in the car. Ten minutes later I was sitting in front of two slices of New York–style, gooey-cheesed, grease-dripping, easily folded pizza. I didn’t even do the usual napkin blot to soak up the extra grease. I sat in the booth as I blissfully chewed my giant bites. I stared out the window and gazed at nothing in particular in the foreground. Then my focus shifted to the background, where I noticed an American flag fluttering on a pole. I followed the pole down to a large brick building with a mural painted on the side depicting President Andrew Jackson with a strong-looking woman, who I was fairly certain had to be his wife, Rachel. I remembered from another Charlton Heston movie that she never lived to see him become president.
“Everything okay, miss?”
I looked up. You could tell the parlor was new, since the employees still had that ready-to-please attitude.
“Yes, thank you,” I told him. “Things are much better now.”
He gave me a funny look as he walked away. I realized then that he had meant the pizza, not with my life.
As I told my staff, you never know what’s on customers’ minds when they’re sitting alone at a table, and that the rule of thumb was to approach them as gingerly as a cop coming up to a car on a routine speeding stop. It just never occurred to me that I would be one of those whack jobs on the other end of a server’s greeting.
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 . . .