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Authors: Delia Rosen

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“What about?” I asked.

“I don't see how that's any of your business,” Jason replied.

“What about?” Grant asked.

Jason's lips became a single, angry line.

“I didn't eavesdrop,” Brenda said.

“What about when they were together?” Grant asked, pressing.

“They laughed a lot,” she said with a kind of misty reflection, like a seer. “Talked about their childhood. Playing sports, chasing girls. Including me.”

“They both chased you?” Grant asked.

“Those two and Chuck Gailey and Bull Griffith and a whole bunch of others. I was very popular.”

“So they were like brothers?”

“Very much so,” Brenda said. “I remember when Dave served in Iraq. He volunteered for the first war. Joe was very, very upset. Very worried.” She smiled. “That was actually the start of his sports business. Before he left, Dave was concerned his mother would throw all his memorabilia out or sell it at a yard sale. She never really understood it and thought it was a waste of money. We took it in, stored it in the spare room. That was the time when online buying and selling were just getting started, and Joe would pick up items for Dave to surprise him with when he came back. That gave him the idea of opening the store.”

“Where did the money for the shop come from?” Grant asked.

“Dave's folks,” she said. “They won a million and a half dollars in the state lottery. They moved to Hawaii and gave him what was left over.”

“So Joe had no interest in it.”

“Only as a friend,” she said.

“Mind if I talk to Dave?”

“Not at all, but I don't think you'll get much from him,” Brenda said. “He's been very, very upset. He's been comforting himself with Mr. Jack Daniels. It's an odd thing, Detective. Looking after him has helped me not focus on how upset
I
am.” Jason laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. She pulled on her cigarette and exhaled. “I'm sure it will hit me at some point.”

Grant took the phone list and tucked it back in his pocket. He walked to his chair and leaned on the back. The dogs growled again. Brenda silenced them.

“Who knew where your husband was going to be that morning?” he asked.

“The bakers,” she said.

“You already spoke to them,” Jason put in.

“Baba and Marvin,” Grant said.

“That's right,” Brenda said. “They adored Joe.”

“So they said,” Grant replied.

“He gave them season tickets to the Titans games every Christmas. He was a very thoughtful employer.”

I could have sworn Jason's eyes shot to me at the word
Christmas,
but maybe I imagined it.

“Anyone else in Joe's circle?” Grant asked.

“I've already talked to everyone around here, everyone he worked with, including the farmer who sold McCoy's their eggs,” Jason said.

“I read your report,” Grant said.

“Then you know there's nothing wrong on this end,” Jason said.

He looked at me again. Maybe it wasn't my religion or my city of origin. Maybe he just hated all women who weren't his sister. I didn't see a wedding band on his finger. For all I knew, he and Robert were an item.

“You have no children. Is that correct?” Grant asked.

“You know she doesn't,” Jason said.

“Just checking,” Grant said, watching Brenda's reaction.

The woman had grown distant when he asked. Obviously, that was not by choice. One of them couldn't.

“Did you ever try to adopt?” I asked.

Brenda fired a look at me. “What is that your business?”

“Did you?” Grant asked.

“How dare you both!”

“
Did
you?” Grant demanded.

“No!” she said. “We did not have time for children. Running the bakery after my father died was a full-time operation. I had a family full of policemen.” She threw the side of her head in Jason's general direction. It wasn't a loving gesture. “There was no one but Joe, and he worked more hours than any man ought to.”

She began sobbing. They were not crocodile tears, surprisingly. I didn't know what about this woman was real, but the tears seemed to be.

Grant stood in contemplation. “I guess that does it for now,” he said. “Thank you, Mrs. Silvio. I'm sorry for your loss, and please accept my apologies for the intrusion. I hope you understand we just want to find the person or persons responsible.”

“Of course,” she said. She crushed her half-finished cigarette and looked at me. “Ms. Katz, may I ask you a question?”

“Certainly,” I said.

I'd already risen, and Grant had stepped up beside me. I didn't need the support, but it was nice to know it was there.

“Are you always as pushy as you were when we spoke on the phone?”

“I don't see what that has to do with anything,” Grant said.

“No, it's okay,” I told him. “I was . . . pushy. I was stressed about my order. I had a new employee starting that day, a broken dishwasher, no repairman, and other stuff going on.”

I didn't have to look at Grant to know that he knew that I meant him.

“Was it also that time of month?” Jason asked.

“Officer, are you out of your mind?” Grant wailed.

“We are permitted to ask that question,” Jason said.

“No, it is a question that is permitted during a psych evaluation when a doctor has already determined that a female suspect has a hormonal imbalance,” Grant said. “Not a single one of those requirements applies.”

Jason took the rebuke without flinching and without withdrawing the question. Which I didn't bother answering.

I looked back at Brenda. “Even for us New Yorkers, most of us, anyway, there's a big gap between being hostileâsorry,
pushy
âand homicidal. Most of us don't cross that line.”

“Most, but not all,” Jason insisted.

“No, not all. But if you check my record, and I'm willing to bet you have, you'll find that I have never been arrested, I was never the cause of domestic violence, and I have never, in fact, even received so much as a parking violation. Or, for that matter, even a health code violation. If you check TSA records, you will discover that it has never even been necessary to pat me down at an airport. I am a rational woman, Mrs. Silvio, Officer McCoy, even when I am under pressure or PMSing or being harassed by police or hounded by a public that wants to have a peek inside my house of horrors.”

Brenda averted her eyes.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Silvio, but you asked. Yes, I have been tense. But not tense enough to kill anyone.”
Except Robert Reid,
I thought.

“Your business has picked up since this happened, has it not?” Jason asked.

“Yeah,” I said, picking up a little steam, “it has. And, gee, who among my people wouldn't revel in that? Oh, wait.
Me.
I'd trade all of this week's receipts for one day of normalcy, Officer McCoy. One day where all of you would back off.”

“It's all right,” Grant said, putting an arm around me.

I shook it off. “It isn't all right. Even if I had something to hide, even if I were a serial killer, we are innocent until proven otherwiseâ”

“Gwenâ”

I went on. “You're upset. It's a shock. Hey, we all have tsuris. We all have
troubles.
That doesn't give you an excuse to open a can of bias and start flinging accusations.”

“You were the only one at the scene!” Jason yelled back.

“Except for the killer!” I shouted. The dogs started barking. I wanted to kick them. “I didn't know Joe Silvio! He was there on time with my order! I don't even have a goddamn dog!” And as if to punctuate my outburst, I sneezed three times in a row.

Brenda came over to calm the dogs as Grant led me from the dining room. He slid a pocket door closed behind us as the dogs whammed against it.

“Gwen, calm down.”

I was shaking. I started to cry. The days had piled up, and I finally gave in under the weight. He ushered me out to the car, helped me in, jumped around to the driver's side, and gave me his handkerchief.

I looked up, saw Brenda looking out the dining room window. There was a glare on the glass; I couldn't tell if she was smiling or horrified.

“That went well,” I blubbered.

“Actually, it went fine,” Grant said. “Some things got aired, and you've pretty much sidelined McCoy. What about
you?
”

“I'll be okay,” I assured Grant. He was hovering attentively across the gearshift.

“I know,” he said.

“I guess that was a little pushy,” I said.

“A little.”

I laughed. “That guy is a redneck
putz
.”

“Globalization and the world is a village notwithstanding, we still have a view of those.”

I wiped my eyes, blew my nose, and clutched the handkerchief. It was silly, but right now that was a source of strength. His, something a man had given me.

“I'm sorry I brought you,” Grant said.

“Don't be. I needed that.”

“Why don't we get some coffee, the over-a-dollar kind, before I take you back?”

“I have a better idea,” I said. “Why don't you take me to the offices of the
National
?”

“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 youâ”

“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 bitterlyânot 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 deskâfor protection?âbut 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 withâ”

“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. Butâand maybe you'll understand this better than most, given your own family backgroundâbut 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 hoursâjust the house and the Dumas Funeral Home, not surprisinglyâand 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.”