A Killer in the Rye

by Delia Rosen

  “I do.”

  “That may be enough to get the process rolling,” he said. “Can I come by?”

  “I’m at the deli,” I said.

  “See you in a few.”

  Chapter 23

  I flipped on the deep fryers to let them heat up, sliced fresh onions, brought in the bread when it was delivered from McCoy’s. I had decided it would be wrong to change suppliers permanently, even though there was a wary chill from Pete, my regular delivery guy. Polite “How do?” and a formal “Sign please,” even though I knew the drill.

  Grant knocked on the door a half hour after our talk. He was wearing the same clothes as the night before and looked a little wan.

  “Been at it all night?” I asked as we went to the office.

  “More or less,” he said. “Caught a couple hours of power nap at my desk.”

  “It’s scary when the habits of you and Robert Reid align.”

  He didn’t seem to hear. I had handed him the paper on which Lydia had written her number.

  “This doesn’t mean she did anything but get a call from him,” he pointed out.

  I knew that monotone of his. He was actually talking to himself, working through this.

  “His last call before letting you know he was going to be late,” he said.

  I heard the door key turn the latch. I looked out, waved at Thomasina. She had seen Grant’s car out front and went about finishing what I’d started in the kitchen. She hummed as she worked.

  It must be nice to be happy, I thought. Or at least content.

  “I’m wondering what connection they could possibly have,” I said. “It seems kind of random. I mean, she said she knew him from church, but that’s no reason for an early morning phone call.”

  “There’s nothing else in the records,” he said. “Not even a photo of them together.”

  I said, because that was the way everything seemed to be going, “Affair?”

  “Of course it’s possible,” he agreed, “though I’d be real surprised. We talked to folks at Silvio’s church. He was deep into the congregation, Bible studies, fund-raising. I don’t think it was for show. He seemed devout.”

  “Even devout men have needs, and Brenda is kind of . . . I dunno. A tad formal? You’re a man. What do you think?”

  “I think I’d rather be with you,” he said.

  That was supposed to be a compliment. He was too tired to see how it fizzled.

  He took the number, kissed my cheek—another strike—and hurried off to see about getting a judge on the phone. I went over to Thomasina.

  “Who was the guest?” she asked, looking up from the ketchup dispensers she was filling and nodding at the sink.

  I filled her in. After all, she was like a surrogate mother to Stacie.

  “Lawsy, the poor child,” she said.

  “Poor, but soon to be among friends and family,” I said.

  Thomasina looked at me as though she had X-ray vision and could see into my head. “You hired her?”

  “I did.”

  I have to admit, I wasn’t sure how she’d react. Would she think I was dragging old wounds front and center, putting an explosive vest to our bosom, or was I dutifully, lovingly helping family?

  The big woman nodded approvingly. “Good for you, Nash dear. God bless you, and good for you.”

  That was a relief. I still couldn’t be sure I’d made the right decision, but I was surer than I was ten seconds ago.

  The rest of the staff trickled in, Luke and Dani arriving together. I felt like I was watching a science fiction TV show about a time slip. Every time I saw them, their dynamics had jumped to a new level. They walked to the counter, arms around each other’s waist, oblivious to everyone else until we said good morning. Then they broke and went about their business but never seemed to lose eye contact.

  As we neared the opening bell, there was a rap on the door. Thomasina was opening the cash register, and I was in the office. I heard the keys turn. I heard my manager talking. I couldn’t hear who she was talking to. Probably an early customer. If we were ready, we usually let them in.

  A minute later her big frame filled the door.

  “Nash?”

  “Yes?” I looked over from our Web site. I’d been thinking about revamping it, and actively working on that now stopped me from thinking about “my buddy” Grant.

  “You have a visitor,” Thom said. “Lydia.”

  Speak of the angel of maybe death, I thought. “Coming,” I said.

  Thom left, and I gathered myself.

  What could she want? I wondered. To thank me for helping Stacie? Had her daughter called to tell her what I’d done? Had Lydia heard about Scott, about Stephen Hatfield? Or maybe she was headed to Joe Silvio’s funeral. The good news was, wearing her usual wardrobe, she was already dressed for it.

  She was standing by the cash register like a customer waiting to be seated. There was a leash attached to a parking meter outside and a wirehair fox terrier attached to the leash. It was sitting, panting, staring after its master.

  Lydia seemed calm. I hoped she wouldn’t try to kiss me. I made a point of stopping just outside of hugging range.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Hello, dear,” she said.

  “What can I do for you?”

  She smiled. It was the smile of a woman who seemed at peace. “I was walking the dog before work and decided to stop by.”

  So much for mourning Joe Silvio, I thought.

  “Stacie came to the shoe store after work,” she said.

  “She told me you’d taken her to lunch and had a lovely talk. That warmed me, Gwen. The fact that she spoke to me after being so cross was . . . What was the word your father used? A mitzvah.”

  That made my flesh crawl.

  “Stacie also told me I didn’t have anything to worry about in that other matter.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s through.”

  “I’m so glad,” she said.

  There was something missing here, though. She seemed a little too calm, given what had happened since. It might not have been my place, but . . .

  “Lydia, did you hear about Scott?”

  Her expression clouded. “Scott? What about him?”

  I said, “He had a run-in with some gang members. He’s in the hospital.”

  She put her hand to her mouth. “Poor boy! Is he badly hurt?”

  “I think he’ll recover,” I said. “I’m surprised Stacie didn’t tell you.”

  “Oh, well, I’m sure she was busy and . . . well, she couldn’t have,” Lydia said.

  “Why not?”

  “You see, that’s actually the reason I stopped by,” she said. “That cell phone number I gave you? You wouldn’t have been able to reach me.”

  “Why?”

  “Lord, I hate those things. I guess I’m just old-fashioned.”

  “Fine, but why would I not have been able to reach you?”

  “I got it at a RadioShack to keep in my bag for emergencies, and touch wood, I haven’t had one,” she said. “So I didn’t even realize it’s been missing, for only God knows how long.”

  Chapter 24

  Lydia’s little flyby threw me into a tailspin. Here, I had thought we had not just a killer but a killer who I didn’t like. Sure, it would have hurt Stacie to know her mother was homicidal—but it also would have been a fitting capper to a lifetime of disappointment.

  So the cell phone was lost. Or stolen. I went to the office and called the number. There was no answer.

  Crud.

  I thought of the only light-fingered cell phone thief I knew—Scott Ferguson. He had access, but what was the motive? What could he possibly have against Joe Silvio? Being fired for having sex in a bread truck?

  I phoned Grant to tell him the latest. He seemed a little crestfallen to hear it.

  “I thought we might have this cat in a bag,” he said.

  “Sorry,” I told him.

  “Not your fault,
” he said consolingly. It was flat, hollow. God, was everything he said going forward going to seem bland? What had that sicko Hatfield done to me?

  He was going to go ahead with the search warrant, since there was still enough cause to have it in hand.

  We opened. Working the cash register, I noticed people passing slowly by the big window that had our name written large in red. They were well dressed, looking in with sour expressions and then moving on. It was like a scene from a Bergman film—the one I’d actually stayed awake through, anyway.

  Then I realized who they were: Silvio mourners. The funeral home was a few blocks north, and they were passing by to see where it had happened . . . and, perhaps, to brand me with their pissy expressions. I wanted to stick my tongue out at everyone who looked my way.

  And then it occurred to me.

  There is one person who might have some insight, I thought. I looked at my watch. I had about forty-five minutes. I should probably wear a Kevlar vest for what I had in mind, but I was going to do this.

  I asked Thom to man the cash register—she did not seem surprised—and went out the door without bothering to get my bag. I didn’t expect to be gone very long, unless I got myself arrested.

  The Dumas Funeral Home was located on Third Avenue South. I literally ran all the way over, feeling like my dad’s hero, the New York Giants’ scrambling quarterback Fran Tarkenton.

  The glum faces didn’t recognize me as I overtook them on their way from the parking garage. They merely looked at me like I was crazy, which I probably was. I trotted past the outside usher, stopped to sign the register so I could catch my breath, then looked into the chapel for Brenda Silvio. She was in the front pew with her brother.

  This was going to be ugly. Not only wouldn’t I be welcome, but I also wasn’t dressed for the occasion.

  “I need to talk to you,” I said, cutting into a little hemisphere of family and friends.

  Jason looked like the embodiment of that demon I said I let loose. He was the kraken made landfall.

  “Get out!” he said, grabbing the wrist that was nearest him.

  I yanked it hard from his thick grip. “Brenda, I need to talk to you.”

  The woman looked up through her veil. Her mouth was so tight, it looked like it might shatter. For all I knew, her teeth already had and she was just keeping them inside.

  “Ushers!” Jason called back.

  “We need to talk about Lydia Knight. Now,” I said.

  Two beefy ushers arrived. Brenda held them, and her brother, off with a hand. I envied the power in those five little fingers.

  “Is there somewhere this person and I can talk?” she asked an usher. “Alone?”

  “Yes,” he said and extended a practiced arm.

  Brenda rose slowly, unsteadily, helped by her brother. He walked with her to a small room off the chapel—it probably had an official name, but I had no idea what that was. I had gone past the closed white coffin, semi-oblivious, though the widow slowed to brush her hand across the side as she passed. It was a sweet gesture. I hoped it was sincere. I wanted to believe it. I had no reason not to believe it.

  Was I that desperate for romance that I got warm and fuzzy watching a woman I didn’t like and her dead husband?

  Apparently.

  Jason fired a warning-shot look across my bow as he settled his sister into a pale green armchair and backed out of the room. The usher had remained at the door. He shut it with a quiet click. Everything was quiet in here, even the floorboards.

  Well . . . funeral home. Death.

  Brenda glared up at me. “What do you want?”

  “One of the last calls your husband made from his cell phone on the night of his death was to Lydia Knight,” I said.

  She looked up at me with a look that was half disbelief, half horror. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Ask your brother,” I said. “Go ahead. Call him in. He suppressed Joe’s cell phone records.”

  I could hear Grant swearing at me in my imaginary future; I didn’t care, I didn’t know why I didn’t care, and I didn’t care about that, either.

  “Why would he do that?” Brenda asked.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “To avoid a scandal? Or the hint of a scandal? To protect you?”

  “From what?” she said. “Joe wasn’t a philanderer. He was a devoted husband and a devout, churchgoing man.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I said. “Still, he called Lydia’s cell phone a few hours before he was murdered.”

  She was clearly struggling to process the implications of what I’d told her. A unified theory eluded her. “Go on,” she said.

  “I know this is difficult, but did they have any kind of relationship or friendship or anything? Ever?”

  “I don’t see how that’s any business of yours,” Brenda said hotly.

  “Lydia had a longtime affair with my father,” I said.

  “That is not news,” she fired back.

  “I guess not. Apparently, I’m the only one in Nashville who was unaware of the great Katz legacy. Lydia is also the mother of my half sister—though you probably know that, too.”

  Brenda did not acknowledge that one.

  “That’s the ‘business of mine’ that Lydia Knight is. That, and the fact that the call sort of makes her a suspect in Joe’s murder.”

  “Why drop this in my lap an hour before my husband’s funeral? Why don’t you ask her?”

  “Because I’m not sure I trust her,” I said. “I trust you. We may not like each other, but I’ve done business with your company—with you—for nearly a year. I believe you’re an honest woman.”

  That seemed to soften her a little. Not much, but enough to get her to talk to me.

  “Talk to me,” I said. “I can call Detective Daniels to come down and ask these questions, or we can talk about this woman to woman, I can pass along anything relevant, and you can get on with your mourning.”

  “You take a lot upon yourself,” she said.

  “Story of my life,” I replied. “Brenda, what was Lydia Knight to your husband?”

  She sighed long and deep. There were tears.

  For Joe? I got the feeling they weren’t. It was his funeral, but she hadn’t been crying before.

  “Before Joe and I married, he had a brief relationship with Lydia,” Brenda said. “She had been dating your father, was upset that he wouldn’t marry her, and . . . well, she started seeing other men.”

  You two-timing bitch, I thought, ignoring the fact that I was nearly about to do that to Grant, except the other guy turned out to like guys.

  “So Joe was one of her revenge dates,” I said.

  “I suppose he was. Then he proposed to me. The relationship ended.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have to ask—”

  “Am I sure it ended?” she said. She laughed a little. “I’m sure. Joe . . . Joe was a man of some innocence.”

  What the hell did that mean?

  “I’m not following,” I said.

  “Lydia was his first. I was his second. And his last. I know that.”

  “Because he went to church? That’s your evidence?”

  “No,” she said.

  “What, then?”

  I was watching her as she wept. There were a lot of tears. That was to be expected at her husband’s funeral, but I wondered if there was something else. These were coming from her belly, not her chest. She was heaving. Guilt.

  And then it occurred to me.

  “Twice a day,” I said.

  “Pardon?”

  “The calls to Dave. You two dated in high school. You were the one phoning him.”

  She cried harder.

  “You were seeing him.”

  She nodded.

  “Did Joe know?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Brenda, did Dave—”

  “No!” she exclaimed through the tears. “Dave and I both loved Joe! They loved one another, and they both loved me! Dave would never
have done anything to hurt either of us.”

  Except screw his best friend’s wife, I thought.

  “All right, fine,” I said. “Then back to Lydia. How do you know Joe hadn’t seen her again, that he was faithful?”

  “Because,” she said, “he had cancer a year after we were married.”

  I didn’t tell her I knew that. I let her continue at her own pace.

  “The doctors operated,” she said. “They cured him. But when they were down there, they nicked a nerve.”

  “Oh,” I said. The coroner had obviously missed that. “So he couldn’t—”

  “Not after that,” she said.

  So good friend Dave stepped in for his impotent friend. Men were so giving.

  “We just found out, only a few days before—before this happened—that the cancer had returned,” Brenda said. “Joe tried to hide it, but I knew how upset he was. That was why I was so short with you on the phone. It wasn’t a good week.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. So they did know about the recurrence. “Brenda, do you think that’s why Joe may have been talking to Lydia? To let her know?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Why would he? They hadn’t spoken for years. I don’t even shop in her store.”

  The door pushed open. Jason looked in.

  “Brenda? Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she said, taking control of herself.

  “We need you out here,” he said, firing eye daggers at me.

  “I’m coming,” she said. The woman reached for a box of tissues, pulled out several, and touched the wad to her eyes. She had been expecting to cry. She hadn’t worn mascara. “Excuse me,” she said and rose.

  “Of course,” I said. “Thank you.”

  She didn’t respond. She just looked away, not with anger but with sadness. I accepted that. For us, that was something of a breakthrough.

  Chapter 25

  There was a back door from the secret room, and I took it.

  My head was awhirl with Brenda, Joe, and Dave. It was like the song in The Mikado. “Here’s a how-de-do!. . . Here’s a pretty mess.”

  The key to this how-de-do was Lydia’s cell phone. Who had it?

  I thought of calling Grant or even Robert to see if they could do some kind of triangulation thing, but it occurred to me that if someone had used it to lure Joe to his death, they would have discarded it by now.