Delia Rosen - A Brisket, A Casket: A Deadly Deli Mystery

Hey, watch it. Yall almost knocked over my babka!

Did not.

What you mean, Jimmy? I saw you bump the babka. Makes you the second person tonight.

There you go again. A bumps a whole nother thing from knockin it over. Besides, how come youre only on my case if somebody else did it too?

Cause youre the ones here right now. And the one who ought to know better.

Since whens ignorance an excuse, Newt?

Never mind. Bump my babka before the dough rises, you might as well knock it to the floor. Aint nobody wants a flat babka.

Saying thats true, for arguments sake. If it already got bumped twice on that there counter, maybe you should think about makin some kinda change.

Like what?

Like puttin put your babkas someplace else.

Like where?

Like anyplace except where they block the way to my machine

Turning from my office stairsthey were in the kitchen near its swing doorsI stared at the roast pig that should have been a pastrami and tried to ignore my bickering staffers. Newton Trout was the restaurants head cook and baker. Jimmy DuHane was my dishwasher. Their nonstop arguments could be annoying at the best of moments, and I was a certified wreck.

Im Gwen Silver ne Katz, owner of the only Jewish deli in Nashville. Its named Murrays, after my dear, late uncle, Murray Katz, the illustrious Swami of Salami, whod bought the place for a song thirty years ago and made it a Tennessee two-stepping success. When he left the business to me after his recent death, Id been living in my native New York and was sure I wouldnt want any part of it. But sometimes things happen to make sure go out the window withwell, whatever else you toss. In my case, it was a twenty-four-karat gold Tiffany wedding band that Id contentedly worn for half a decade.

Long story, details to come. Right now, I was too horrified by the stuffed pig on the counter in front of me to grit my teeth about my ex-husband Phil, who I suppose could be considered the pig I left behind.

Not that my present company wasnt a quality hog. Cooked to a deep golden brown, glazed to perfection, it lay on a platter of romaine lettuce with a bright red apple in its mouth, redder cherries for eyes, and seedless watermelon wedges tucked under its outstretched forelegs like fruity sofa cushions. Though larger and plumper than my new cat Southpaw, it had little piggy ears that curled exactly the way hers did when she was getting set to torment Mr. Wiggles, the elder of my two feline hell-raisers.

The difference being that the tips of the pigs ears were crisp.

Thankfully, Id never seen Southpaws ears with crispy tips. In fact, the image was almost upsetting enough to trigger a cigarette craving in me. Not that it took much.

Hey, Nashthe kid fetch the pastrami yet?

I tore my eyes from Southum, the roast hog. Nash was short for Nashville Katz, a nickname Id kind of acquired with the restaurant. More on that later too. Promise.

As I turned toward the kitchens swing doors, I saw that Thomasina Stonewall Jackson had poked her head in from the dining room amid a blast of karaoke music, her sprayed, soaring bubble of hair almost colliding with the upper door frame.

Thoms hair is a metallic bluish gray color that matches the restaurants old-fashioned tin ceiling. I mention this because its wise to remember that she describes it as snow-white, and says the poofing effect makes it look like a yummy vanilla parfait. Anyone who differs might want to think twice about going public.

Luke hates when you call him a kid, I said.

Well, I hate when people cuss, and you do more of that than a cowhand with saddle itch.

Whos cursing? Did you hear me curse?

Nights still young. And besides, the kid aint here.

I made a face. Thomasina had been my uncles powerhouse manager forever. To know her was to love her. Well, okay, Im full of it. She mightve come within a half mile of tolerable on the best of days. Like when the sky was full of sunshine, my hair was relatively tame, and I weighed in at 135 before breakfast. And when I won at least fifty bucks on the scratch Lotto. And the guy who cashed my ticket was an ultimate blue-collar hunk.

Luke phoned from the airport a few minutes ago. I wobbled my cell phone in the air. He had a problem at the baggage claim.

Whats the pastrami doin in baggage claim? I thought it came on a super-duper air cargo flight?

It did.

Then why aint it at the cargo terminal?

Good question, I said. All I know is there was a mix-up somewhere. And that the pastrami wound up on the carousel.

At a passenger terminal.

Right.

With peoples suitcases?

I guess.

You guess? Did the pastrami land or not?

I shrugged. Luke spotted it on the conveyor belt and pushed his way through the crowd. But it got carried back around behind the wall before he could grab it.

And then what?

That was the last I heard from him.

So you dont know that it got here.

I told you, Luke saw it. They packed it in a special cooler.

Thomasina looked skeptical. They meant the Star Deli in Burbank, California, and she mistrusted anyone or anything beyond the Tennessee border. Never mind that Id only phoned in a long-distance pastrami 911 because our local meat distributor messed up my order, which Id in turn only placed after our online corporate catering orders had mysteriously gotten zapped into cyber limbo. The same-day air delivery had cost ten times more than I would take in for the next three days, but the next best option had been FedEx overnight, and that wouldve gotten the pastrami to me too late.

The kid aint back soon, we go with the hog, Thomasina said.

We cant, I said, shaking my head. Theres no hog in Jewish cooking.

Aint no servin dairy with meat either. But we got Ruben sandwiches and cheese blintzes on the menu.

I sighed. Suddenly Thomasina, who ran her Baptist congregations annual bake and craft fair, and led the local chapter of the Womens Inter-Church Curling League, had also become a certified expert on kosher dietary law. Of course, it was an open secret that Thom had been carrying on with my uncle for over two decades when she wasnt singing gospel hymns. After spending half her life around the deli as his manager and play pal, she probably knew much more than I did about the technical distinction between strictly kosher cooking and our kosher-style dishesan expertise I hadnt needed while ordering at Upper East Side sushi bars or poking through designer apparel collections at Saks Fifth Avenue. Back when I could afford to splurge on such luxuries.

Still, only her anxious expression convinced me she wasnt covertly testing my deli acumen. So what if I owned the place? Id felt on probation with Thom since the day I first set foot in Nashville.

Nope, uh-uh, forget it, I said. Hog is out. The idea of serving it here would give poor Uncle Murray a heart attackif one hadnt already killed him.

She stared at me a second. Then her features softened.

Your uncle never tired of complainin about these catered affairs bein more trouble than they were worth, she said. But he knew when push was on its way to shove, hon. Better a stuffed pig on the table than a bunch of starved Southern men around it.

Hon? What had brought that on? I felt like a fly buzzing around sugary bait. But never mind, shed gotten me there. Kosher Karaoke night was a tradition at the delicatessen, and we couldnt blow the first since our grand reopening. Especially with Yakima Motors, the latest Japanese automotive company to move its headquarters to Nashville, having booked a catered dinner to celebrate their new partnership with the areas leading dealership chain, Sergeants Cars and Trucks.