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home, he was in a bad mood. Those two things together didn’t a murderer make, but Terri didn’t appear to be the sharpest knife in the drawer, so I went along with her line of reasoning, just for argument’s sake. I often came home late and in a bad mood, and I didn’t murder anyone. I didn’t think her theory would hold up in a court of law if it didn’t hold up in my kitchen.
    Jackson didn’t strike me as a murderer at all, but who knows? Maybe he had gotten sick and tired of being cheated on and wanted to do something about it. Could he have been that angry about Terri’s cheating that he could murder Ray in cold blood? Why hadn’t he just murdered Terri, my preferred victim? I didn’t have the energy to murder Ray; I was hoping for a more supernatural solution to the problem and had hoped that he would just disappear into thin air.
    I didn’t know what she was going to do, but it seemed like the shit was going to hit the fan next door and I didn’t want any part of it.
    After Terri left, instead of crawling into bed and staying there for the remainder of the day (my first inclination), I got into the car and headed to my favorite Italian deli in town. There’s nothing like a good Italian sub to take my mind off my troubles. My plan to head to Tarrytown was scrapped by the hour that Terri had eaten up with her tale of woe. I was forced to stay local if I wanted to squeeze in the much-needed nap that I had promised myself.
    Tony’s Delicatessen was only about a quarter mile from my house but I decided to drive anyway. I needed a lot of food and even more wine to erase this day from my mind, so I didn’t want to make the trek on foot. I set out in my car, thinking about Terri and how she could possibly imagine that I would lend a sympathetic ear. I guess I come across as as much of a patsy as I thought, having lent her that sympathetic ear for far too long.
    I love to eat but I hate to cook and Tony’s had become my go-to place for all things deli. As luck would have it, I had married a man who lived on protein shakes and power bars, so cooking was a nonissue. Also, I’m spectacular in bed and that made up for any culinary deficiencies. At least that’s what I tell myself. My ex apparently didn’t share the same regard for my sexual prowess.
    After stopping by the liquor store and buying several bottles of wine, I arrived at Tony’s. His face lit up when I entered the deli and he looked genuinely happy to see me. Two things about Tony: (a) he seems to carry a torch for me and (b) he knows the kind of sandwich I like and calls it my “usual.” For some reason, that sends me over the edge. I don’t want to be the paramour of a little, fat Italian deli owner widower and I definitely don’t want to be the kind of woman for whom chicken salad on rye is the “usual.” I’d like to think of myself as more exotic—the kind of woman about whom people say “and she just loves foie gras”—as misguided a notion as that is. I had avoided going to Tony’s very much and the joy on his face when I walked in reminded me why. Your deli man shouldn’t be that happy to see you.
    â€œThe usual?” he asked, reaching across the counter and grabbing my hand. Tony is sixty-five if he’s a day, widowed, and the father of eight children, two of whom are older than me by at least six or seven years. If I ever did decide to marry Tony, I wondered how those middle-aged children would feel about his young wife cutting in on their deli inheritance.
    I took a step back, ostensibly to visit the beverage case but more to avoid the make-out session that Tony seemed to have in mind. “No, thank you, Tony. I have a list,” I said, dropping the list on the counter and backing away. I made my way to the refrigerator and picked out a couple of bottles of water and that disgusting, high-caffeine drink that Max