A Brisket, a Casket

by Delia Rosen

  My sentence petered out. What was I supposed to say? That a minute ago my entire staff had been wondering if anyone would ever walk through the door again, period?

  Instead, I motioned her toward the dining area. “We can seat you at booths or tables…take your pick, there are several available,” I said. As if she couldn’t see for herself that the place was empty as the Bates Motel after the shower scene. “If you prefer, we’ll push a few of the tables together—”

  “TSF always takes tables. Booths ain’t their style!”

  TSF? Forget my surprise that the group rated an acronym. I owed the sudden unwanted, unnecessary, and overbearing interruption to Thom, who’d come charging up the aisle, pushed past me toward the group of women, and taken Mary Ann’s hand into both of hers. “How y’all been?” she asked.

  “Spectacular,” Mary Ann said. “I was just explaining to Murray’s lovely niece—”

  “Call me Gwen, please,” I said.

  Mary Ann flashed me a buoyant smile. “I was about to let darling Gwen know that once the four of us—Somer, Frances, Lolo and I—heard about last night’s frightfulness, we couldn’t wait to lend our support to the delicatessen.”

  I gave her an appreciative look. “That’s very kind of you, Mary Ann.”

  “It seemed to us people might shy away from here after reading the newspaper stories. Which plain wouldn’t make sense.”

  “None whatsoever. But it’s very considerate of you anyway…”

  “Don’t mention it.” She flapped a hand. “Course, my girls do love murder mysteries. We discuss them here at every gathering of the club.”

  “New books, that is,” said one of the women who’d entered behind her. Fiftyish, slim, and wearing a pink floral print dress, she nudged closer in the aisle. “I don’t know if you recognize me…we met at your uncle’s funeral service. I’m—”

  “Lolo,” I said, taking her hand. How could I have forgotten a name like that? “It’s great to see you.”

  “And under better circumstances this time.” She frowned. “Well, not entirely better, I suppose. Since yet another poor man of your acquaintance has dropped dead, and right here in the restaurant. But what I meant to say was we love reading mysteries, and sometimes even schedule mystery writers to appear at the library. Mary Ann’s late husband, may he rest in peace, was a Rutherford County sheriff’s detective. She’s too modest to say it, but I can tell you he owed his entire career to their talking shop at the breakfast table.”

  “Lolo, that’s way too much praise,” Mary Ann said, clearly basking in its glow. “True, I might’ve nudged Brandon in the proper direction once or twice during an investigation. But Lolo can tell you how good she is at clues…she has an unusual flair for noticing things that aren’t where they belong.” She smiled at Lolo. “What’s that expression you always use, sweetie?”

  “Anything out of place is a case!” Lolo said.

  Mary Ann clapped her hands and laughed. “I do so love it.”

  Cute. I felt my temples twang and wished I could stuff a cigarette in my mouth, though I’d have gladly accepted a five-mil Valium as consolation. Grateful as I was for their turnout, these women were driving me to distress. And to think I’d been happily yahooing about a minute ago.

  “How about we get everyone seated?” I said, motioning toward the rear. “We have all sorts of Saturday lunch specials. Uncle Murray’s cholent, our Full of Bologna sandwich, Johnny Cashew pie for dessert…”

  Those items had barely rolled off my tongue when the Silver Foxes started filing past me into the restaurant. To my immense relief, they were soon eying menus at their tables, where Vernon and Medina had doubled up to help them. I’d needed a break from discussing Buster Sergeant or anything connected to his murder.

  It buoyed me when over half the ladies decided to try the Full of Bologna, a sandwich Uncle Murray must have fixed hundreds of times back home in Long Island, but for some reason never made one of the deli’s offerings. As we’d prepared for our grand reopening, I was astounded to learn that not even Newt had heard of it, and will admit I’d gotten a kick out of rectifying that conspicuous omission, insisting it be included with our other lunch staples, and demonstrating its simple preparation to Newt almost exactly as Uncle Murray had shown me….

  “First you sauté the onions till they’re transl—uh, what’s the word again Gwennie…?”

  “Translucent.”

  “That’s it. You don’t want them getting brown. Use a nice big frying pan or grill and just enough oil to cover the bottom so the onions and bologna won’t stick. Once the onions are ready, you add the bologna slices and cook them till they pop up sorta like army helmets. Then you turn them over with a fork or tongs—be careful not to tear ’em—and do the other side so it bulges too. Now…you got some hard rolls cut for the next step?”

  “Right here, Uncle Murray…”

  “Deli mustard from the fridge, I hope.”

  “Is there any other kind for a hearty sandwich?”

  “Atta girl! What you’re gonna do after the bologna’s done frying is stack it so that…”

  “…they’re right in the kitchen,” Lolo Baker was saying to me.

  I realized I’d slipped off into a daydream about Murray as I went from table to table asking my guests if they were satisfied with everything. I felt instant embarrassment—it was unlike me to go through the motions.

  “I’m sorry, Lolo,” I said from behind her. “What was that again? I must’ve phased out for a second.”

  “Not to worry, sugar,” she said, reaching out to pat my wrist. “After what you’ve been through since last night, it’s a marvel you aren’t in a worse state.”

  “Guess I’m a little overtired,” I said, hardly thinking that was an excuse. “I still appreciate you being so understanding.”

  Lolo gave my wrist another pat or two. She was a trim, patrician woman in her fifties who’d reputedly married well many times over, and her short blond cut put her among the small minority of Silver Foxes to be acquainted with hair dye, since most had silvery coifs…hence the first part of the club’s name, oh magnificent Carnac.

  “You ought to repeat your comment about those stairs, Lolo,” Somer Vaughn said. “I’m surprised none of us ever noticed it before. I reckon it’s that sense you have for things being in their right places. Or wrong ones.”

  Lolo was shrugging. “Somer here’s always playing detective. Though she’s got a nose for it, I admit.”

  Somer shooshed her off. “Stop,” she said. “There you go with your stories again.”

  “Is that right?” Frances laughed. “Remember way back when we heard about that Jose Menendez fella and his wife getting shot in their living room? I can picture us in front of the television like it was yesterday. They said on the news their sons called the police, and you turned to me and asked, ‘Now why’d those two nice-lookin’ boys do that to their mama and daddy?’ And then there was the time with that football player…”

  “That’s enough from the two of you, please,” Somer said. “Go on, Lolo. The stairs. What was it about them you found odd?’

  “It’s nothing more than a minor curiosity,” she told me. “I happened to see Vern turn into the kitchen, and noticed them behind the doors. First time they ever caught my eye…it’s an unusual spot for them, isn’t it?”

  “Kinda,” I said. “It was something they had to work around during the building’s renovation. But it’s convenient too.”

  “Oh?”

  I nodded. “The steps lead up to my office. So I can take a shortcut through the alley when I’m in a hurry.”

  Lolo looked as if she had another question on her mind, but Mary Ann interrupted us before she could ask it.

  “Excuse our annoying questions,” she said. “We want to support our favorite restaurant and get to the bottom of this nasty episode with Buster Sergeant. Crime-solving’s what we do—we can’t help ourselves.”

  I blinked as her words registered. I
didn’t see how she could have known about the poisoning.

  “Crime?” I said. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know, it’s only guesswork right now,” Mary Ann said with a smile. “My forte’s getting to the bottom of TV crimes…I guarantee you don’t want to sit next to me when there’s a police drama on, because I’m bound to spoil the end. But those stories aren’t all that different from real-world incidents, and it’s surely odd that the police haven’t yet made a public statement about what killed poor ol’ Buster.”

  I decided to carry on the ignorance-is-bliss routine, which meant pretending McClintock hadn’t tipped me off that the police department’s silence was very deliberate…and that the medical examiner’s report was being kept under wraps.

  “Maybe they just don’t know why he died,” I said. “After all, it’s been less than twenty-four hours….”

  “Gwen, honey, listen,” Mary Ann said. “In your experience, has there ever been a time when a bigshot—or even some poor average fella who winds up in the news—passes away of natural causes and the papers don’t give some hint about what’s happened?”

  I looked at her. “I suppose I never paid attention to it before,” I said more or less truthfully.

  “Well, take it from us,” Mary Ann said. “They might not know for sure why someone’s gone to meet his Maker, but if there’s nothing suspicious, you can bet you’ll read words like ‘suspected heart attack’ or ‘possible stroke’ or some such…isn’t that right, girls?”

  There were nods around the table.

  “When I see the expression ‘undetermined cause,’ I dare say the tip of my nose does start to twitch,” Somer said. “To me, that might as well say there’s been a suicide, murder, or accident involving some famous person. Like Tiger Woods smacking his car into a fire hydrant.”

  “Eldrick T. Woods according to the police report,” Mary Ann said, swallowing a bite of her sandwich. “At least they bothered filling in his real name after he hit a tree with the car.”

  “And then got his rear windshield smashed to pieces,” Frances said.

  “And his head cracked open,” Lolo said.

  “And his teeth knocked loose,” Somer said. “Before he wound up laying on the ground unconscious for six minutes.”

  “Unconscious and bleeding out of his mouth,” Mary Ann said.

  “Not that anyone could have hit him or his car with a golf club,” Frances said.

  “Oh no, no, no,” Lolo said. “Not Eldrick!”

  “Six minutes from undetermined causes!” Somer said.

  “How dare people spread those atrocious rumors about Eldrick getting bashed in the head!” Mary Ann exclaimed.

  I was quiet as the women broke out into trills of laughter. Besides making me wonder if being named Eldrick could lead to lifelong psychosexual issues—assuming it was an actual, honest-to-God name—the Silver Foxes’ recreational sleuthing had confirmed that the warning McClintock had given me at his office was on the mark. If they could glean there was more to the Buster Sergeant story than the Nashville police had let on, and do it literally overnight, then I was certain the media would be savvy enough to pick up on it.

  “Darling, I should mention that I love the salad that comes with this sandwich,” Mary Ann said, her laughter subsiding now. She motioned to her plate with her fork. “It’s so fresh and delectable.”

  Murray would’ve appreciated her compliment, I thought. It echoed the exact words he’d spoken when he unveiled his Full of Bologna to me. “Don’t forget, Gwennie. Always serve these babies with sliced cherry tomatoes. Sprinkle them with parsley and coarse salt and you can’t go wrong. The idea is to keep things fresh and simple.”

  I stood there at the core four’s table another minute, then moved on to continue my rounds and welcome the rest of the group’s members. Frankly, though, I was already looking past lunch to when the deli closed for a couple of hours as we prepared for the dinner crowd…assuming we drew a crowd. The break would give me a chance to spend some time upstairs in the office, where I meant to confront the daunting challenge of going through the boxes Uncle Murray had left around. There were a whole lot of unexplained questions about how Murray had apparently plummeted into financial quicksand…far, far too many for my liking.

  McClintock and the Silver Foxes could tackle the questions hovering over Buster Sergeant’s demise, and I would be nothing but appreciative. Thanks to them, I’d been inspired to do some detective work of my own—sticking to what I knew best.

  It was time I started looking for answers in the numbers.

  Chapter Ten

  “What in the Sam Hill is goin’ on here?” Thomasina said from my doorway.

  Crouched over an open carton on the floor, I somehow refrained from asking what the hell “what in the Sam Hill” was supposed to mean. Instead, I pulled a manila folder out of the box.

  “I’m getting things organized,” I said. One of those expanding-accordion types, the folder was so thick with files it was ready to burst at the seams. “Or hadn’t you noticed Murray left the office just a smidge on the untidy side?”

  Thom’s lips turned down toward her chin. Well, that’s not quite correct. They’d already been turned town when she asked her question. So let’s say they turned further down.

  “You can’t resist givin’ me a hard time, can you?” she said.

  “Actually, it’d be my pleasure,” I said. “We can even rewind about ten seconds. You step back outside and ask if I need help…knocking’s optional incidentally. Then I look up, smile, and say I’d really appreciate a hand. Hard time canceled. And the next thing you know we’re working together in harmony to put this mess in order.”

  I heard air blast from her nostrils and gathered my suggestion didn’t enthuse her.

  “You wanted me to add up the lunch receipts and I done it,” she said, displaying the tally sheet. “Can I set this someplace to your princessly likin’?”

  “Put it down anywhere in this junk heap and it’s bound to go the way of the woolly mammoth.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know…like in the La Brea tar pits?”

  She gave me a blank look.

  “Siberia ring a bell?” I said.

  Blankness continued to reign on her face.

  “Never mind,” I said. “Look…why don’t you just read off the totals?”

  Thom shrugged. “Good enough,” she said. “I wasn’t sure you’d trust me after our exchange of words this morning.”

  Righto. As if I’d been the one to deliberately conceal the truth about having heard from Royce Ramsey. “Read away,” I said. “I’m all ears.”

  “We took in four hundred twenty-seven dollars cash money, and another three hundred and five in charges,” Thom said, glancing down at the sheet. “The grand total’s seven hundred thirty-two dollars.”

  “And what was the average Saturday lunch take before Murray died…just an estimate?”

  “I’d say a thousand dollars, plus or minus.”

  “So we’re down by three hundred dollars—less than a third the usual amount,” I said. “That doesn’t seem too shoddy under the circumstances.”

  “Exceptin’ the king-sized version of the Silver Foxes probably accounted for about five hundred all by themselves, and most of those ladies ain’t regulars,” Thom said. “You look at it that way, it beats a hard kick in the pants, but doesn’t make me want to call in the fiddlers for a wingding.”

  I mulled that a few seconds and concluded it was difficult to quarrel with her. “About the customers…how many of the rest were familiar faces?”

  “Apart from the Foxes?”

  “Right.”

  “Wasn’t a whole lot,” Thom said. “Ten or so to my eyes.”

  I sighed. That definitely did not give me cause for celebration. “There’s no getting around the drop-off in business,” I said.

  “Afraid not,” Thom said. She put the tally sheet on my desk. “I could’ve told you as much with
out this piece of paper. When I passed through the kitchen, I saw a whole crock full of leftover cholent…and that says everything you’d need to know.”

  I frowned. Across the room, Thom stared at me, troubled. “We’re in bad shape, ain’t we?” she said. “Putting aside the afternoon receipts.”

  I looked into her face, standing up among the jumble of cartons. I wasn’t about to sugarcoat things. “Artie Duff says my uncle’s finances were a worse disaster than this office. According to him, the restaurant might’ve been doing brisk business, but was still hemorrhaging money.”

  “How could that be?”

  “I wish I knew,” I said, and paused to think. “You wouldn’t have any idea where Murray kept his online catering records, would you?”

  She shook her head and made a pushing gesture. “I stayed clear a that whole computer order-in’ thing,” she said. “It was way too complicated for me.”

  “Artie felt the same…and he’s a trained accountant.”

  Her face pinched. “You mean it wasn’t his idea to begin with?”

  “No. Well, check that. I don’t know whose idea it was,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” she said. “I just figured Artie would’ve had some part in it.”

  “I suppose it’s possible. He sure didn’t seem thrilled with how the system was set up—but I know from my own accounting experience that it’s easier to brainstorm a system like that than implement it,” I said. “Anyway, I’d like to dig up those files. Artie thinks they might be here somewhere.”

  Thomasina’s face had continued to tighten with concern. “Princess, with all this confusion, you tellin’ me we won’t make it?”

  “Until we see what’s in these cartons, I won’t know what to tell you. And even then, it might be impossible to get everything sorted out. Maybe if I can untangle Murray’s personal losses from the profits he took in here…”

  I let the sentence trail. There’d been something else on my mind with regard to my uncle.