Chapter 26
I needed a trip to the emergency ward.
The blades had cut the skin but had only glanced off the muscle, so five stitches would fix me right up. Grant arrived moments after the first responders. But before they took me away, he supervised the custody taking of Lydia Knight, made sure Stacie was all rightâshe was sitting at the counter, sobbing into her folded arms, but he let her beâthen came over while the EMTs were bandaging me.
“We can get her statement later,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“Yours too. When did you plan to bring me in on this?”
“Soon,” I said.
“Your independence is a challenge,” he said.
Wrong thing to say, Detective Daniels. Seriously wrong.
“I didn't even know you went to the memorial today,” he said. “And I was there.”
“You must've come late. Lydia saw me.”
“I arrived after you slipped through an exit in the side chapel.”
That's what the little room is called? How disappointing.
“You seem to have made a friend, though,” Grant went on. “Jason McCoy was furious at what you did, but Brenda shut him up. She said you were kind and very respectful.”
I was, I thought.
Grant looked around. He went to the office and gave it a once-over. There was really nothing left for us to sayâabout this and probably about anything else. I don't even know if he sensed that. He came back, gave me a kind of formal good-bye, then left to see to Lydia Knight's booking.
I guess maybe he did know.
When the paramedics were finished, I took a moment to go where Stacie was sitting. I took the stool beside her, easing my wounded arm onto the counter.
“Hi,” I said.
She looked up and struggled to find a little smile. “You know something? That was the first thing you said to me.”
“That's why I said it. Because we're going to start over from right here. You may not be my sister by bloodâor half bloodâbut we can still be good friends. Close friends. Who our fathers are doesn't matter.”
“You don't think so?”
“I know so. What we've just been through? What still lies ahead of us? We are bonded for life.”
Stacie slipped toward me, snaked her tear-dampened arms around my shoulders, and wept. I put my arms around her and did the same.
She might have gone about it as wrong as a human being could possibly do anything, but Lydia Knight had achieved her goal.
Chapter 27
I woke up famished.
After getting stitches in the emergency room, I had gone home without eating, had passed out, and woke only when Thomasina called to tell me to get my butt to the deli. I asked her to please, please have two toasted bagels with lox and cream cheese waiting for me.
I got there to find my order on the table nearest the door, right beside a newspaper that lay open.
Most people reading the paper this morning would be poring over the headlines about the arrest of Lydia Knight. Here only one story mattered. It was on page two, and it was the
Nashville National'
s 2012 Best & Worst list.
Halfway down, in Arial black type, it said:
Best Mid-Range Restaurant: Murray's Deli
“Oh my God!” I blurted.
Robert Reid walked over, applauding. He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a plaque boasting
VOTED BEST OF
2012
BY THE
NASHVILLE NATIONAL
.
“Oh my God!” I repeated.
That was when I heard the staff and our breakfast customers applauding as they watched and smiled. I returned the salute, applaudingâwith one hand against my thigh, since the other arm was a little incapacitatedâas I locked eyes with each and every employee.
“Thank you so much,” I said to Robert. “Uncle Murray would be so proud.”
“He would indeed,” he said. “Of the restaurant, of the award, and of you.”
I frowned. “Brownnosing won't get you an interview.”
“Will it get me a dinner?”
“Without an interview?”
“How about . . . Can we at least talk about one?”
“Maybe,” I said. “With three conditions.”
“Name them.”
“First, you have to swear to me that this award had nothing to do with giving you an interview.”
“It did not,” he assured me. “We voted before I heard the news of the murder being solved. By you. One of our city's best and brightest and bravestâ”
“Knock it off.”
“Done,” he said. “What's the second condition?”
“We take my . . . my dear new employee Stacie. For whom you will buy a dress and some bling for the event.”
“I'll make that happen,” he said. “You
are
talking aboutâ”
“The Stacie who is working for me,” I said. “You do not, will not, won't even think about talking to her. That is my third condition.”
“Met,” he said. “When do you want to do this?”
“I'll check with her and let you know,” I said. I smiled, held up the plaque. “Thanks for this.”
He smiled back. “You earned it, honey.”
I went to my office, accompanied by cheers and Thomasina's big smile. I paused to give my manager a hug.
New York was wonderful for so many reasons. I was formed there. I experienced so much there, both good and bad. I gathered the information that, going forward, would help to make me a happier, more fulfilled human being, a good employer, and a better friend to the people near and dear to me.
However, there
is
one thing they don't have there and never will.
Murray's.
Best Mid-Range Restaurant of the Year.
Note: When Murray the Pastrami Swami passed away, hundreds of delectable recipes passed away with him. However, his uncle Moonish from Romania opened his own delicatessen on Manhattan's Lower East Side in 1919âwhere he hung a sign that said
MY HERRINGS ARE SO FRESH, YOU'LL HAVE TO SLAP THEM.
Uncle Moonish taught Murray everything he knew. Uncle Moonish also wrote down his recipes for posterity. He had so much trouble learning the new language of his adopted country that one waiter in Moonish's delicatessen put up a sign that said
ENGLISH BROKEN HERE
.
These recipes were passed down to his son Murray, who promptly misplaced them. Then, a few years ago, I found them among Murray's possessionsâincluding a stringless ukulele and a signed photo of Alice Fayeâthat were stored in my aunt Shelia's attic on Long Island.
So now you, lucky readers, can re-create one of these delectable recipes as a treat for the whole family. I've updated the recipe where necessary, but here it is, in Uncle Moonish's own words.
Â
S
AUERKRAUT
(Make your own. Why pay someone to make it?)
Â
Ingredients:
⢠2 nice heads of cabbage. Each cabbage should be the size of Melnick the Fish Peddler's head. They need to be cored and nicely shredded. (The cabbages, not Melnick's head.)
⢠2 tablespoons kosher salt
What you'll need to make it:
⢠Large mixing bowl. Because the best place to mix something is in a bowl meant for mixing.
⢠Sauerkraut crock.
⢠Wooden spoon, like the big one my aunt Meema hit me with when her false teeth fell out of her mouth and landed in the goulash.
⢠Clear the kitchen. This stuff doesn't always smell like roses.
How you should make it, so give a listen:
1. You
smoosh
the cabbage and salt together in your mixing bowl. Make sure your hands are clean, because you don't know where they've been! Squeeze the cabbage and salt together with your hands, but do it nice because cabbages have feelings, too.
2. The cabbage should become limp like Epstein the Tailor's shirt collars in August. You should have lots of cabbage juice. Put the whole schmear into a sauerkraut crock.
Smoosh
the salted cabbage into the crock good and tight as you can, and make sure there are no bubbles, until it is drowning in the liquid. Cover it up, but not too tightâthe cabbage needs air to ferment properlyâand then let it sit and mind its own business at room temperature for at least a week. You can even let it sit for a month almost. Try some sauerkraut every few days, until it makes you happy. And if you're like most of my friends, you're never happy. Then put it someplace where it's cold. You do that, and it will keep for six months. Of course, the idea is to nosh on it, so why would you keep it for six months?
3. Follow my instructions, and you'll have a nice two quarts.
Â
A warning:
When you serve the sauerkraut in your apartment to more than three people, like for a dinner or a lunch, open all the windows as wide as you can one hour after eating. Sauerkraut is delicious, but it's the gift that keeps on giving, if you know what I mean.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Â
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Â
Copyright © 2012 by Jeff Rovin
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-7976-7
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