A Killer in the Rye by Delia Rosen Read Free Book Online Page A

Thom and lunged at the camera. Clawing and ripping at the cables and pulling wires, I yanked a long, skinny black cord as hard as I could, ripping the mic from Sommerton’s hand. I watched as it flew through the air like half a nunchuck. The cameraman lost his balance and fell backward into the white broadcast van, which pulled a cable that was still in my hand, so that I tumbled forward onto the sidewalk, my head scarf flying off to reveal my fried orangey-yellow hair. A crowd had gathered. Looking up from the ground, I recognized the hairstylist who had approached me just yesterday. She went from horror to manic laughter in about two seconds.
    Cell phones were out; pictures and videos were being taken. I hoped some new technology came along soon, because I knew that from that moment forward I would have a posttraumatic reaction to the back side of a cell phone.
    Luke and Newt ran to my rescue. Newt strong-armed the cameraman into quickly packing his gear and leaving. I saw Sommerton give her card to the three ladies as Luke untangled me and picked me up in one swift motion.
    â€œYou can expect a bill for the equipment, Ms. Katz!” Sommerton said shrilly.
    â€œHey, come back when I’m playing on open mic night,” Luke said as she turned away.
    Without a word I limped into my office, went into my top desk drawer, grabbed an “in case of emergency” cigarette, unlocked the emergency-exit bar, and I stepped quietly, shaken, out the back door. The cinder block was still on the ground, so I stood there with the door propped against my shoulder.
    I sucked on my cigarette while staring at the empty concrete in front of me. Just yesterday I had found a dead body out here. It could have been a normal day. I could have been voted Best Mid-Range Restaurant. But no. Someone had to do this, and in my backyard.
    Nash, someone is dead, my brain reminded me. Stop obsessing over the Best in Nashville Award!
    Why? I asked. I want it. For me, for my uncle.
    Fine, but you’re losing it.
    The award?
    Your mind!
    I blew smoke. Touché, brain!
    I stomped out my half-finished cigarette and made my way back in. I needed to dig into some paperwork while my staff did its thing. I also needed to find a new bread company, since I wasn’t sure Brenda would want to send one of her trucks back into the kill zone. I also didn’t really want to have bread trucked in from Brentwood, as I’d threatened. Perfect excuse to lock myself in my office.
    I sat in my old, ratty office chair, which was missing a wheel, replaced instead by a tennis ball. I could have gotten a new one, but it was comforting that my dad had sat in this chair almost every day. What would he or Uncle Murray have done with all this madness?
    Keep moving. Keep grooving. And Uncle Murray would most certainly listen to Johnny Cash.
    I logged into my Pandora account and typed Johnny Cash into the search box. “Folsom Prison Blues” came on. I felt a chill. I really hoped it wasn’t a foreshadowing of anything.
    One hour and four decades of country classics later, I had locked down a new bread company for right now, and as a courtesy, they were delivering a few bags before the dinner rush. I wished I had known they could do same-day two days ago. Then I wouldn’t be in this mess. I reached into my desk drawer for a celebratory Kit Kat as the phone rang.
    â€œMurray’s Deli,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could, expecting it to be a reporter.
    â€œGwen Katz?” said a stern, unfamiliar man’s voice.
    â€œSpeaking.”
    â€œThis is Officer Jason McCoy. My brother-in-law Joe Silvio was found dead on your premises yesterday.”
    â€œOh. Sorry for your loss—”
    â€œI understand you were supposed to meet him at your place that morning?”
    â€œActually, he was supposed to be here and gone by the time I arrived,” I said. There was a ball of something forming in my throat, like a hair