Fry Me a Liver (19 page)

At some point I fell asleep. I woke shortly after ten p.m. according to that device-of-all-trades, the DVR, and as my eyes came to life, I looked outside and saw something that brought me awake:

There was a car parked out front.

I'm not what the hyperventilating media would call a “gun nut,” but right then I wished I owned a firearm.

I turned from the window and started to punch 911. I didn't think it was a good idea to call Detective Bean at this hour. I wanted to retain her goodwill. I had my finger on the last “1” when I heard a door slam.

Someone wanting to do me harm probably would shut the door softly. For that matter, they probably would not pull up in front of the house. I canceled the call and decided to wait. It was only about five seconds but it felt a lot longer. Even though I was expecting someone, I gasped and started when the bell rang.

I had to clear my throat in order to speak; my heart was hitting
that
hard and high in my chest.

“Who's there?” I yelled.

“It's Raylene,” said the voice.

My world changed there and then. Fear gave way to relief and an overriding sadness was replaced with hope. I knew she had signed with that dirtbag attorney Dickson, but even if she was here to explain why, I wanted to see a familiar, maybe-friendly face. I went to the door, unlocked it, saw my senior waitperson standing there—in civvies—and smiled at her. Her expression was blank when I opened the door; it twisted into something resembling a smile as she gave a little “hi” motion with her hand and walked in.

“It's really good to see you,” I told her. Then I asked, suddenly concerned, “Is there news?”

“No,” she said. “Nothing new with A.J. and Thom. Which is a good thing, I guess.”

I nodded and shut the door. She took a few small steps in. We stood facing one another, she in the center of the room, me with my back to the door. The cats emerged from wherever they had been hiding to wind round and round her legs. She bent to pet them.

“How are you?” I asked, just to break the strained silence.

“Been better,” she replied.

“I guess all of us have been,” I said. “Do you want anything? Tea? Beer?”

“No thanks. Just stopped and had a boilermaker on the way over. That's enough.”

“You had to tank up to face me?” I asked. There was no sense pussyfooting, even with pussies at her feet.

“I had to do it to face myself,” she answered. “That's why I sat out there at the top of the street, just working up the courage to come here.”

“Why?” I asked.

“To tell you that I can't do it.”

“Can't do what?”

“The lawsuit. You do know about that, right?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Well, I can't be part of it,” she said. “I can't. I was thinking about it all day, ashamed that I had even agreed to let that man represent me. Not even me,” she laughed mirthlessly. “He said he was representing ‘my interests,' whatever those are.”

“Collecting vintage Barbie dolls,” I teased.

“Yeah, that's not what he was doing . . . though with the money he thought we'd get, I probably could've bought a really, really mint Barbie Penthouse on eBay,” she smiled. The smile faded quickly. “I know the legal stuff isn't against you, really. And I know that whatever money we might get wouldn't come from your bank account, either. But it's wrong.”

“You don't know what it means to hear you say that.”

“I sorta do,” she said. “It means that if I can get the others to see it that way, we can work on rebuilding the deli instead of building walls between us.”

“True, but it means a lot more than that,” I said. “You know there was nothing I, we,
anyone
could have done to foresee this, to prevent it. We still don't even know who did it and why. How do you intercept something like that?”

“I don't know,” she said. “All I know is that I
know
this would've broke your uncle's heart and I know it's probably doing the same to you. I had to come here before I went to see the others. I didn't want you to spend the night thinking about it, because I know that's exactly what you would've done.”

“True enough,” I admitted. “Can I ask what got you to that point?”

“Spending the money in my head,” she said. “I asked myself if that's who I really am. I mean, if money was so important, I could sell this gorgeous body of mine, right?”

“To a certain clientele,” I suggested.

“The kind who appreciate a vintage wine,” she laughed. “I hear ya. Thing is, I'm not about money. I have enough to do everything I want to do. I love our little coop, I love our farmer, and I love our mama hen—Thom, I mean. And Thom? She'd never go along with this. That would set us against you
and
against her. We'd never recover from that. And for what? Stuff to put on my shelf?”

I went over and embraced her. She hugged me back. We stood there for a minute or more. I felt her warm tears on my neck and I held her tighter.

“I have to confess something,” I said into her ear.

“I hope it's not something that's gonna make me feel like I just did something very stupid,” she said.

“No,” I assured her. “Until you did this, I wasn't even sure I wanted to rebuild. Now, nothing's going to stop me.”

We gripped each other tighter and I sniffed back my own little wave of emotion. The cats mewed—with jealousy or with approval, I did not know. Or care. This was one of those moments that, whenever the night was cold or the horizon was bleak, would warm me to the soles of my feet.

I whispered my thanks and then, without another word, with just a tight grin to hold back tears and relief in her eyes, she turned and left.

I sat for a while on the sofa, thinking about the courage Raylene had shown, when I suddenly remembered what I'd promised her. That the deli would return.

“Okay,” I said to myself. “You've made that commitment. Now what?”

The strange thing was—and this was something I had done for my entire life—I didn't hit a pause button and reconsider. I didn't ask myself, “
Pitzel
, is that really what
you
want?” I had made a promise to someone I'd known not even two years and now I intended to honor that promise.

Is this the way it's supposed to work?
I wondered. Life.
My
life. Shouldn't I decide what's best for me and then let everyone else try and fit their lives into that? That was what most people did.
But Raylene hadn't done that
, I told myself. She had just taken the tougher, less convenient road, turning down easy money for the chance to go back to work.

The phone rang. The landline. Only my staff had that. I grabbed the call in the kitchen.

It was Newt.

“Please don't hang up,” he said. “Please.”

“I won't,” I assured him.

“Boss, I messed up, I know it. And I'm not asking you to give me a pass on that. Oh, and I am sorry I'm calling so late. But I wanted you to know that I got a text from Raylene saying she just was talking to you about the lawsuit and I'm totally onboard with her. That dude Dickson—I told him what I did with Benjamin and he told me that had nothing to do with this thing. He said I could still get money. I know you're not going to believe this, but money had nothing to do with me helping him. I—Jesus, I just didn't want to be a short-order cook anymore. He had a way out. And I honestly don't know if I want to be a cook when you reopen, which Raylene said you want to do. All I know is I don't want you to hate me. Going with Dickson—”

He ended abruptly. I thought he was going to say more and I hadn't formulated a response.

“Boss?”

“I'm here,” I said. My voice was flat. No, more than that. It was unforgiving.

This was not a teenager I was talking to. It was a man. A young man, a provincial man, but a man. A man who had made a dumb decision and abetted industrial espionage. Now he was looking for absolution. I didn't know if he had actually snubbed Dickson or if, based on my response, he'd go back to him. I hated the fact that I trusted Newt so little because of what he'd done.

But what if it
had
been a stupid, spur-of-the-moment mistake?

Didn't I come down here on an impulse?
I asked myself.
Didn't I run from my former husband, from my career, from my hometown—all because I needed a life preserver, any life preserver?

And I had a decade on Newt. The guy could be truly repentant. And while I had a right to be angry, was it smart to
stay
angry? What I said and did now was going to ripple through both our lives.

“Please say something,” he said. “Even if it's to tell me—”

“Welcome back,” I said.

I heard a small intake of air, like someone sucking a hit of helium from a balloon. Which was an appropriate metaphor, since Newt's voice was higher when he swore from relief and thanked me.

“Don't thank me,” I said. “Just learn this much: when you have a problem, take it to your friends. Take it to the people who care about you, not people who want to use you.”

“I'm shaking,” he said. “I've never felt like this.”

“Like how?”

“So scared,” he said. “Somebody tried to sell me a swamp and I came really close to trying to build a future on it. My granpaw did that in Louisiana but there was a market for alligator skins then.”

It wasn't an entirely successful analogy, but I wasn't going to dispute it then and there. Especially because my cell phone was ringing.

“How about I call you in a day or two and we all get together?” I said. “I've got someone on the cell.”

“It's a deal,” he said. “And thank you. Thank you.”

“Thank
you
,” I said—not as enthusiastically as him, but enough to leave the door open to continue repairing the relationship.

I took the incoming call. I had thought it might be A.J. Two or Luke or Dani also backing out of the suit. It was none of the above. It was Detective Bean.

“I know it's very late, Gwen, but I'm still at work. You got a second?” she asked.

I wanted to comment that this was ironic, given that just before I had been concerned about calling
her
too late. But I held that thought.

“Of course.” I heard something new in her voice. It was not a question but a demand, the vocal equivalent of a bloodhound suddenly tugging back on the leash.

“There was a big plastic trash can in the kitchen,” she said. “Where was it?”

“We keep—kept—that next to the food prep table,” I told her. “All the food discards go in there. You know, when you slam down the head of lettuce and pull out the heart? That goes in. Cucumber peels. Carrot scrapings. Potato skins.” “Any caffeinated beverages?”

“Never,” I said. “I don't—didn't—allow coffee or soda in the prep area. Why?”

“I'd rather not get into that just now,” she said.

“Why?” I pressed. I hadn't said “why” twice like that since I was ten or so.

“You know the answer to that,” she said. “This is a police matter—”

“About
my
deli!”

“—and we want to look into this on our own.”

“Detective, I have a reputation for quality deli. You may not know this, but I apply that standard to every facet of my life.”

“That's not what they call it here,” she said.

No
, I had to admit. They called it meddling. I hated the word, especially since I wasn't limited by due process and I got results.

“All right,” I said, affecting acquiescence. “But for my peace of mind, can you at least tell me if you think this was directed at me or at the politicians.”

“I cannot give out that information.”

“Because you don't have it?”

“Because I don't want anything interfering with our investigation, which I must get back to now,” the detective said. “Thank you for your help.”

“But I may have information that—”

“If I need anything else, I'll call,” she said curtly. “I promise.”

The detective hung up. I stood by the end table brooding. I almost missed Grant, who, for all his flaws, often whispered sweet privileged information in my ear. But I quickly got a grip. Still, for all the joy and
nachas
I felt at the partial return of my beloved coworkers—my family—the truth was I had no idea who had attacked my real home or why. That not only rankled, it frightened me. Paranoia about hate crimes is only paranoia when there's no foundation for one's fears.

I paced the living room until I realized I was hungry, then went and had some gherkins and put the coffeepot on. The cats wandered in as they invariably did when I went into the kitchen. I saw that their bowls still had the dregs of kibble.

“Finish what's there,” I commanded. “Kittens are starving in Brooklyn alleyways.”

I considered the situation and what little information I had, as the cats rubbed my legs.

“I survived the explosion,” I said. “If someone were after me, they would still be after me. I would have heard from them, gotten some kind of warning, like whitefish wrapped with a warning that I'd end up in the lake.”

That hadn't happened and my gut told me I wasn't the target. I went to the computer and checked the schedules of the mayoral candidates. None of the three had altered their schedules. There was an item about amped-up security, but that was to be expected after a bombing regardless of the target. There were no news items about threats to any of the campaigns.