Read Online To Kill a Matzo Ball (A Deadly Deli Mystery) by Delia Rosen - Free Book Online
Authors: Delia Rosen
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remembered someone once saying that being with my family was like being in Fiddler on the Roof. Maybe we should all come tattooed with movie references, like bar codes, so people would know what to expect. Maybe the NPD could keep an eye out for the Birth of a Nation crowd.
The woman started to turn away.
“Is there something I should bring?” I blurted. “I mean, what is traditional?”
The smile broadened very slightly. “Bring what you carry.”
That didn’t help, but I smiled politely in response—directly at her, not at the turning heads in back. It wasn’t my intention to snub them but rather not to be discouraged by them. The looks had not made me feel welcome.
As I crossed the street I noticed that the officer had come to the corner to watch what was going on. She was busy texting. She didn’t seem too concerned . . . unless she was texting something about me.
I checked my cell phone messages as I walked back. There were calls from every member of the staff, all saying the same thing: we hope you’ve gone home by now. I texted them all that I was fine and I was walking around. I told them I was going to take it easy that night and that I would see them in the morning to hand out menus and deal with our takeout business. Thom still seemed to feel a little ghoulish about that. I cared, but not for my sake. I needed to work.
There was also a message from Grant, checking in and letting me know that the security cameras on my street had done nothing for them.
“The gunshots did not come from a passing vehicle or pedestrian,” he said. “I’m disappointed we didn’t get a lead, but not surprised. The angle was a little steep for that. We’re looking at one of the rooftops across the street.”
Terrific, I thought. Someone was waiting for the morning crowd to thin so they could get a clear shot at Chan or me. Inside, where we couldn’t run.
Grant went on. “The good news, if there is any, is that there may have been a run through. A competitive marksman likes to reverse-engineer a target, if possible. Stand in front of the bull’s-eye and look back—gauge refraction of the glass, glare, obstructions, that sort of thing. So your shooter may have been among the customers this morning.”
That was good news if the customer had charged a meal. And owned a gun legally. And didn’t have someone who would lie to give him an alibi. A friend in New York was one of the Manhattan assistant DAs. It was alarming how often a perfect storm of evidence was needed to get grand juries to sign on the dotted line. And that was New York. In Nashville, where cousins or neighbors were often the alleged perps, Grant once told me that the task was even tougher.
When I got back to the deli, I made an early dinner to compensate for skipping lunch. I did not return the call from Candy Sommerton or Robert Reid of the Nashville National or anyone else who wanted an interview. The sun set on me playing solitaire on the computer and feeling very, very trapped. The office felt darker than it was, street sounds—never dramatic, not like in New York—being muted by the big wall of plywood and steel up front. I had closed the back door so the cats now had to stay cooped up. The strong smell of the disinfectant I’d used on the floor added to the choking claustrophobia.
I got up suddenly, as though I’d decided something. I hadn’t. It was just caged-tiger impatience. I stepped into the hall, failed to find any satisfaction in my surroundings. I went back to the office, minimized the card game, rubbed my eyes, and noticed the cards from Agent Bowe-Pitt and Banko Juarez.
And then something occurred to me. It was a ridiculous something, but it was better than nothing. As my bubbe used to tell me, Az es zenen nito keyn andere mayles, iz a zumer-shprinkele oykh a mayle.
If a girl has no other virtues, even a freckle can be considered one.
I had just such a freckle, one I was betting Detective Bean had not noticed.
Chapter
The woman started to turn away.
“Is there something I should bring?” I blurted. “I mean, what is traditional?”
The smile broadened very slightly. “Bring what you carry.”
That didn’t help, but I smiled politely in response—directly at her, not at the turning heads in back. It wasn’t my intention to snub them but rather not to be discouraged by them. The looks had not made me feel welcome.
As I crossed the street I noticed that the officer had come to the corner to watch what was going on. She was busy texting. She didn’t seem too concerned . . . unless she was texting something about me.
I checked my cell phone messages as I walked back. There were calls from every member of the staff, all saying the same thing: we hope you’ve gone home by now. I texted them all that I was fine and I was walking around. I told them I was going to take it easy that night and that I would see them in the morning to hand out menus and deal with our takeout business. Thom still seemed to feel a little ghoulish about that. I cared, but not for my sake. I needed to work.
There was also a message from Grant, checking in and letting me know that the security cameras on my street had done nothing for them.
“The gunshots did not come from a passing vehicle or pedestrian,” he said. “I’m disappointed we didn’t get a lead, but not surprised. The angle was a little steep for that. We’re looking at one of the rooftops across the street.”
Terrific, I thought. Someone was waiting for the morning crowd to thin so they could get a clear shot at Chan or me. Inside, where we couldn’t run.
Grant went on. “The good news, if there is any, is that there may have been a run through. A competitive marksman likes to reverse-engineer a target, if possible. Stand in front of the bull’s-eye and look back—gauge refraction of the glass, glare, obstructions, that sort of thing. So your shooter may have been among the customers this morning.”
That was good news if the customer had charged a meal. And owned a gun legally. And didn’t have someone who would lie to give him an alibi. A friend in New York was one of the Manhattan assistant DAs. It was alarming how often a perfect storm of evidence was needed to get grand juries to sign on the dotted line. And that was New York. In Nashville, where cousins or neighbors were often the alleged perps, Grant once told me that the task was even tougher.
When I got back to the deli, I made an early dinner to compensate for skipping lunch. I did not return the call from Candy Sommerton or Robert Reid of the Nashville National or anyone else who wanted an interview. The sun set on me playing solitaire on the computer and feeling very, very trapped. The office felt darker than it was, street sounds—never dramatic, not like in New York—being muted by the big wall of plywood and steel up front. I had closed the back door so the cats now had to stay cooped up. The strong smell of the disinfectant I’d used on the floor added to the choking claustrophobia.
I got up suddenly, as though I’d decided something. I hadn’t. It was just caged-tiger impatience. I stepped into the hall, failed to find any satisfaction in my surroundings. I went back to the office, minimized the card game, rubbed my eyes, and noticed the cards from Agent Bowe-Pitt and Banko Juarez.
And then something occurred to me. It was a ridiculous something, but it was better than nothing. As my bubbe used to tell me, Az es zenen nito keyn andere mayles, iz a zumer-shprinkele oykh a mayle.
If a girl has no other virtues, even a freckle can be considered one.
I had just such a freckle, one I was betting Detective Bean had not noticed.
Chapter
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