A Killer in the Rye

by Delia Rosen

  “Why? What’s there?”

  I said, “The Second Battle of Bull Run.”

  Chapter 17

  The Nashville National was located in a white brick building on Twelfth Avenue South. The office had been there since the 1930s, when the editorial and printing operations were consolidated. There were still flatbeds with big rolls of paper outside. It reminded me of what Times Square used to be like when the New York Times still printed its editions in midtown.

  Get your head out of the past, I yelled at myself. You hated that time, when Professor Levey used and discarded you.

  Nostalgia is the art of forgetting the bad stuff and remembering the good. It’s like the eighties, which weren’t just Adam Ant and Spandau Ballet. They were also Edwin Meese and censorship, movies like Kramer vs. Kramer winning Oscars, and tension at home.

  “I really think this is a terrible idea,” Grant said as we pulled up.

  “Wouldn’t be my first,” I said. “Probably won’t be my last.”

  There was a fine rain now, which fit my mood.

  “At least let me go in with you, then,” he said.

  “Nah. I can handle this.”

  “Without violence?”

  I gave him a look. “Didn’t you hear what I told Officer McCoy and his sister back there? Not all of us are homicidal.”

  “I didn’t say you’d kill him,” Grant pointed out.

  “I won’t touch him, I promise,” I said. I gave Grant a peck on the lips. “I’ll be fine.” I handed him his handkerchief.

  “You can keep that,” he said. “I’ve got an umbrella in the trunk if you—”

  “I’ll call a cab if it’s raining,” I assured him. “Now go. Catch a killer.”

  I pecked him again and got out. I scurried through the glass doors, past an older security guard, and told the receptionist I’d like to see Robert Reid.

  “Is he expecting you?” the young man asked.

  “I should think so,” I replied sweetly. “The bastard’s been having me watched.”

  Five minutes and an elevator ride to the third floor later, I was in Robert Reid’s office. He was not there, his secretary informing me that he was downstairs at the loading dock. She asked if I wanted a beverage. I asked for a scotch. She asked if I was serious. I said, “No,” then added, “Not yet, anyway.”

  It was pretty much what I’d expected. A decent view of the city; framed front pages; photos with local, state, and national dignitaries, including one president. The one who supported gay marriage, I thought bitterly—not because I had anything against gays or their domestic bliss, but because this gay man had not bothered to tell me he was a gay man when I thought he was courting me. That was the kind of boondoggle that turned a rainbow to sleet, even among us mostly liberal New York Jews.

  There were framed pictures of Robert’s beloved rottweiler on the desk and a stack of manila file folders, the top one of which was marked JOE SILVIO. I did not touch it. Maybe he was watching from behind a peephole to see if I would.

  Robert strode in, dressed in a white suit, like he was the president of the Tom Wolfe fan club. He had shut the door behind him, and his expression told me he knew something was up. I figured my comment had been repeated by the receptionist. He looked a little guarded as he walked behind his glass-top desk—for protection?—but he was too hungry a newspaperman to turn me away.

  “Good morning, Gwen,” he said. He gestured toward a black leather chair. “Care to sit?”

  “Up yours,” I replied.

  “I see,” he said.

  “I don’t think you do,” I told him.

  He remained standing. “May I explain?”

  “You may,” I said, “after you answer a question.”

  “Shoot,” he said, then chuckled nervously, eyed my purse, and added, “I mean, go ahead.”

  “Are you gay?”

  That obviously wasn’t the question he was expecting. His body relaxed slightly, as though he was at least on familiar territory.

  “I am,” he said. “Why?”

  “No reason. Except that after our meringuey little liaison in your kitchen and our candlelit dinner I sort of thought you were interested in me. As a woman.”

  “I am,” he said.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do,” he admitted, “and that’s a fair complaint. I guess . . . I don’t know. I suppose I was trying to be supportive.”

  I gave him an “Oh, please!” look. “By kissing my cheek?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you knew how I would take it. You knew how I took it, yet you did nothing to correct my misconception.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Who told you? Your cop friend?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “And not because he suspected I might be interested in you. His mind doesn’t run toward jealousy.”

  “How nice for him.”

  “Don’t do that,” I warned. “Don’t go after him because he’s confident.”

  “Confident? What’s that got to do with—”

  “You? And your sudden need to do a big crime story?”

  His mouth twisted wryly. “Who did he talk to? Old man McCoy?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Robert said. “It’s true. Mind you, what I told you about the National is also true. I want us to be family friendly, to promote the best in Nashville. But—and maybe you’ll understand this better than most, given your own family background—but parental legacies can be a bitch.”

  “How do you know about my family background?” I asked. “We didn’t talk about it that much.”

  “You think you’re the only one who knew about your dad and Lydia, about Stacie?”

  “I asked how,” I said.

  “Nothing sneaky about that. Our society writer buys shoes from her. Lydia talks. A lot.”

  “What about me?” I asked. “Did I not talk enough? Is that why you had me followed?”

  “I put that tail on you for just one reason,” Robert said. “Cross my heart and hope to get an ink stain. I wanted to know if and when you talked to the press. Astrid had instructions to interfere if that happened. If and when you talked, I wanted it to be to the National.”

  “You could have just told me that,” I said.

  “The police have rules and protocols to follow. They need warrants. I don’t. If it’s any consolation, I’ve had everyone looked into.”

  “Good for you. It isn’t.” Then I came around. “Who?”

  “Brenda Silvio, Jason McCoy, the bakers, even Candy Sommerton. That gal hasn’t had a big story since her implants were new. Oh, and your little friend Scott Ferguson.”

  “What about him?”

  “He used to drive for McCoy’s. They caught him diddlin’ your half sister in the truck while he was supposed to be making a delivery. Fired his ass on the spot.”

  “What about Stephen Hatfield?” I asked.

  “Stacie’s inamorato? Yes, him too. The families have a history.”

  “I heard.”

  “There’s nothing to suggest he was anywhere near your deli that morning, though, of course, it’s possible he could have hired someone. Assuming he had a reason.”

  “The lawsuit?”

  “He had nothing to gain. The Silvios would have lost that one, it would have cost them a bundle doing so, they would have been responsible for his legal fees, and he would have been in a better position to offer them a stack of cash to get what he wanted from them in the first place.”

  “What about you?” I asked.

  That caught him with his guard down. “What about me?”

  “You mentioned Candy Sommerton. She needed a big story. Probably not enough to kill for, but who knows? You wanted a crime story, too. Maybe you wanted it that bad.”

  “It’s possible,” he admitted, “but then why would I be going through the motions of researching all these people? It’s a pretty expensive proposition.”

  “Made up for
with a bump in sales. You said so yourself.”

  “True,” he said. “But eventually the killer will be found. How would it benefit me if I was he?”

  “Who says the culprit will be found? You could milk this for years, every anniversary, like Jack the Ripper. Maybe cut a few more throats to give it legs.”

  He smiled a crooked smile. “You are devious. I like it.”

  “You would.” I looked down at the stack of folders. “Mind if I see the file on Brenda Silvio?”

  He fingered through the tabbed folders, found it, pulled it out. He held it to his chest like a winning poker hand. “I’ll let you have it if you tell me why.”

  “I’m curious,” I said. “I finally met her. She didn’t like me, and I didn’t like her.”

  “You met her . . . when?”

  “Just now. At their house. I was with Grant.”

  His face went smooth as his mouth opened. “Bless you, Gwen Katz. I’ll give you credit for guts.”

  “I’m from New York.” I took the folder from his suddenly limp fingers. “I’m surprised you didn’t know where I was.”

  “I knew you were with Grant but not where you were going,” he said. “Your move caught Astrid by surprise.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said as I flipped through the file. It was nice to hold something tangible instead of reading something online.

  There were tax records, the same phone records Grant had, time sheets showing where she was during the last forty-eight hours—just the house and the Dumas Funeral Home, not surprisingly—and also old National clippings about the bakery and about her appearances at civic functions.

  There was one clipping that stopped me.

  Robert noticed. He had been watching me carefully. “What is it?”

  “This picture,” I said. “Notice anything?”

  The photo was of Joe and Brenda on their wedding day. It looked like they had just had the “kissed the bride” moment and were holding hands as they began to make their final exit down the aisle.

  “Not really,” he said. “What am I looking for?”

  I laid the folder flat on the desk, brought over a magnifying glass on a stand.

  “I’m still a little at sea here,” he said.

  I pointed to a face off to the side. “See this man?”

  “The best man?”

  “Right. His name is Tolliver David York.”

  “The memorabilia dealer.”

  “Uh-huh. Childhood friend of the deceased.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He was at the Silvio home,” I said. “Consoling the widow. Drowning his grief in a basketball game.”

  “Really?”

  “And truly. What does he look like to you in this photo?”

  Robert bent a little closer. “He looks like he’s losing his best friend. But that’s not uncommon in marriages. Three’s a crowd.”

  “I know. So what if the frown is not for Joe?”

  Robert straightened. “Interesting.”

  “Brenda said that both men courted her way back when.”

  “How seriously?”

  “I don’t know,” I told him. “She kind of threw it off, but . . . I don’t know. It could be nothing. Or it could be something.”

  “An affair?”

  It wouldn’t exactly be out of place with this crowd, I thought. “Worth looking into,” I suggested. I put the clipping down and tugged the edge of the phone list. “There’re lots of calls to Dave’s phone here. She said they were all from Joe.”

  “An affair,” he repeated thoughtfully. “A murder of long-simmering passion?”

  “But maybe not his passion,” I said. “Could be Brenda had enough. Couples who work together either have a great relationship or a miserable one.”

  “That would be a story,” he said. He looked at me with admiration. “You’re good.”

  “I like numbers,” I said. While Robert tried to make sense of that, I said, “So how did the committee meeting go last night?”

  “Fine,” he said. “Your people did a tremendous job.”

  “I know. I was there.”

  “I know. I saw you.”

  I looked at him. “You could have said hello.”

  “I wasn’t sure you wanted to hear it. All you offered me was a view of your ass.”

  “Obviously, not a part that held any appeal.”

  “Rebuke away,” he said. “I don’t blame you.”

  If this were an old movie, I would have slapped him. But if this were an old movie, he would have been Cary Grant, not Robert Reid, and he wouldn’t have been openly gay, just egregiously ambitious. And we’d fall in love in the end, which was not how this story was going to end. So his face was spared.

  “You’ll be giving Astrid a different assignment?” I asked.

  “She’ll begin looking into that little triangle as soon as you leave.”

  “You’ll destroy my file?”

  He hesitated. Then with one swift gesture he pulled it out and handed it to me.

  “Anything in here I should know?” I asked.

  “Souvenir photos of you and Grant in his car.”

  I tore the thin folder in half, then tore each half in half separately. I threw the pieces up with both hands and watched him while they settled on his white shag rug.

  “I believe we understand each other,” I said.

  “Completely.”

  “Oh, and if you hold it against me in the Best voting, I will come back and smack you.”

  “We’re like the Antoinette Perry Awards,” he assured me. “The Tony is not a measure of one’s personal popularity or lack thereof.”

  I looked out the window, saw it was still raining. “Would you call me a cab?”

  “Immediately,” he said.

  I started to go.

  “Gwen?” he said.

  I half turned.

  “Do you forgive me?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  I continued toward the door.

  “Gwen?”

  I stopped but didn’t turn.

  “Would you consider, possibly, remotely, in the interest of history, giving me a one-on-one for the paper when this is over? It’ll be great for—”

  I was out the door and slammed it, turning business into just a jumble of letters.

  Chapter 18

  I checked in with Thom during the cab ride, which, I was pleased but not overly surprised to see, was prepaid. All I had to do was sign a voucher.

  “We’re fine,” Thom said. “As usual.”

  There was not exactly a tacit criticism in her voice, just a stoic heroism.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I ran into Grant, and we got to talking.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “You need someone outside here, and if it was up to me, you wouldn’t even be here for a while, after what you saw.”

  “Be that as it may—”

  “It ain’t may, Gwen, honey. It’s fact.”

  “Okay. I’ll still be back soon. I have one more stop to make.”

  “You’ll be back when you’re back. I gotta go.”

  “Dani doing all right?”

  “Dani is doin’ fine, considerin’ she went to Luke’s soiree after the Reid party last night and let on that she’s a little hungover.”

  “I thought she seemed a little off,” I remarked.

  “I suspect she has hidden such things before,” Thom said. “I only found out when I saw her chuggin’ OJ with a side of pickles.”

  I made a face. “Let me guess. Online remedies?”

  “Separate ones, but she went for the double dose.”

  “Gotta love her.”

  “Or somethin’,” Thom said noncommittally. Drinking and her religious beliefs did not go well together. “Got lunch crowd startin’ in. Goin’ now, hon.”

  Thom hung up. We were a block from our destination. I felt as though I could use a few drinks myself.

  It
was nearly noon. The light but steady rain had emptied the streets of their usual Monday morning foot traffic. I had no idea when Stacie took lunch. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to talk to her. But I did want to see her, just lay eyes on her. Maybe it was a way to get in touch with a part of my father I’d never known.

  A sucky part, I thought, but even bad news is information. The torn-up feelings I had for him needed a push one way or the other.

  The cab stopped in front of Blinn Day Care. I got out and stood under the awning of the pet shop next door. I looked through the window.

  There were cribs, floor mats, plastic and rubber toys, and Sammi Blinn, a very attractive and sweet young woman I knew from chats at the deli. Then there was a younger woman tending to a crying little girl. The woman was taller than Lydia, about five-eight, but had her strong cheekbones and graceful movements. When she happened to look up, I saw that she also had her mother’s eyes. Her long brown hair was worn in a ponytail. There was a small engagement ring on her left hand and a tattoo on her bare right arm. It looked like a football. It was pretty low on her arm, well below the biceps. If I used a tape measure, I’d probably find it was in the exact center.

  A sweet tribute to the football career of her affianced.

  I waited there, admiring the gentle way she handled the kids. I couldn’t imagine the things she felt when she did that. Remembering Thomasina? Imagining a time when she would have her own kids? Wanting them to have a life of comfort and attention, not like the life she had—not the life that Scott Ferguson could offer?

  Maybe she doesn’t really think about any of that, I thought. I have a decade on her and New York jadedness on top of that. Maybe her thoughts are more innocent, purer.

  It occurred to me then that meeting her, I might actually poison the poor thing with something worse than she already had.

  I had just about made up my mind to go when she looked up, happened to see me, and snapped her gaze back after it had already passed. She put the girl in front of a music box of some kind, went over to Sammi, said a few words, and pulled a slicker from the coatrack. I’d been made. There was no sneaking off now.

  She came out the door, the bell tingling, and stepped under the awning. It was like looking into the face of Lydia before life and probably some long swims through a bottle had beaten the hell out of her.